


Little Robin Redbreast

by stympahalides



Category: The Haunting of Hill House (TV 2018)
Genre: Animal Death, Anxiety, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Kissing, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:37:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 111,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stympahalides/pseuds/stympahalides
Summary: Luke tries to start over, but fears that The House isn't finished with him yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just to cover myself, anything that happened in the show may happen or be mentioned in this story, so if you are sensitive to any of that content be cautious. Also, I probably messed up my number system so don’t look too deep into it.  
> If you have questions, I have a Tumblr. That's also a good place to let me know if there are silly mistakes I should fix.  
> 

>   
>  Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree,  
>  Up went pussycat and down went he;  
>  Down came pussy, and away Robin ran;  
>  Says Little Robin Redbreast, “Catch me if you can.”  
>  Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a wall,  
>  Pussycat jumped after him and almost got a fall;  
>  Little Robin chirped and sang, and what did pussy say?  
>  Pussycat said, “Meow!” and Robin jumped away. 
> 
> _― Little Robin Redbreast Nursery Rhyme_  
> 

##### Day 0

The world is dull, soft around the edges. 

The twins are both quiet for a long time. Nell’s focus is steadfast on the road, distracting herself from her brother and his slowly evening breaths. His head is bobbing lazily like he is falling asleep, and he drops what is in his hand. The needle is lost somewhere on the car floor, and he briefly pats around for it before giving up and slumping back into the car seat. 

The night is ugly, blurring into orange streaks through his squinting eyes. He is doing horrible things and has turned his sister into an accomplice. Under the high, a familiar sense sinks into his skin. Shame, disgust. It is late, his sister is taking him back to rehab, and he is killing himself in the passenger seat. The night is ugly. 

He is far away; sinking and rising, acting as a net and catching twinkling lights in his skin. Nell is a cup of stars, Luke is a collapsed ceiling, dark with mold, dripping and stained. 

The car stops. Luke tilts, sees Nell watching him. She’s different. He can feel it, has been feeling it, her pain settled under his like a second, dreary skin. He reaches for her, aim slightly high. His fingers bump her bicep, and she redirects him, links their hands. She’s the only one he can look in the eye. There’s nothing else to do: can’t hide from someone who converges with him, can’t pull away what is already felt, already known. 

“Tell me,” he says, ignoring how his voice is garbled. “I wanna hear it.” 

She nods, smiles tearfully. Luke squeezes her hand harder, pulling it close so she can feel his heart rattle. 

“I feel like,” she starts, struggles, tries, “a loose tooth. I’m shifting in place. No matter where I am, it’s always off-kilter.” She huffs out a laugh, shakes her head at herself. 

“I know, Nell,” he whispers, “I feel it too.” 

There are senses that he can’t identify as either hers or his, great burbling brooks of feeling that flush over him without name or source. _It’s ours_ , he thinks, _this constant dread_. He wishes it was only his, that this was something unshared. That he could unburden her. 

“I can’t take it.” A tear runs over, catches at her nostril. He rises their linked hand to dab it away and she titters, eyes shutting. No truth is the right answer. No truth will make her happy, will ease her pain. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, lamely. She brings their hands closer to her, rests her cheek on his knuckles. 

“You go in there and you bring my brother back,” Nell says, twinkling.

##### Day 94

Here is the truth about empty houses: they are patient.

##### Day 95

The hospital is blue. Echoic and sterile and blue. Since Luke arrived, the room has been reorganized. One, then two, and now three chairs have been pulled to his left and shoved back against the window, curtain drawn. Coats are hanging through the metal arms and two purses are resting together under Shirley’s seat. 

His heart monitor is quiet. Theo watches a green light spell out the hitch of his pulse. Shirley has one hand on his bed rail, the other wrapped around the arm of Theo’s chair. Luke watches the door and waits for Steve to come back. 

The clock says he’s only slept twenty-three minutes this time. Steve went to get ice chips while Luke was awake, so either he was lost or he panicked somewhere alone in Sacred Heart, taking his deep Steve breaths, pressing himself into the wall until he is stable. There are worse ways to cope. 

“Where’s the vending machine?” Shirley asks. Her hand has been clenched around the bed’s rail since the second time he woke up. 

One long breath pulls out of Theo, and she leans over to grab her purse from under Shirley, then stands, says, “Shirl, you want something?” Shirley nods but doesn’t elaborate and Theo goes. 

Shirley and Luke both watch the door, now. 

Luke can still taste foamy white vomit; the corners of his lips are crusted with it; his nose burns and itches where spurts of puke and blood have settled. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and Shirley walks wordlessly to the small bathroom, emerging with damp paper towels. She sits on the edge of her chair, scooting in closer to the bedside, and gently daps at his mouth. The water is warm. She refolds the paper towel, washes the ichor from his nose, refolds and runs it over his forehead, cheeks. He watches her face as she works and he sees…. 

She is careful, kind, and he loves her. 

“I’m not going back to California,” he starts, halted by two voices from outside. The door window is a frosted white and Luke can see the outline of his brother hesitating on the other side. 

The door finally opens and Steve peers in, a foot crossing over into the room while the other remains outside. Two cups, one in each hand. The one on the left might have coffee, the one on the right has ice chips. He hesitates there until Theo bunches up behind him, forcing him to cross the threshold. 

Shirley drops the paper towels into the trash and accepts her drink from Theo. 

Luke lifts a hand for his cup but Steve sits carefully at the edge of his bed and brings the cup to his chest, levering a cube out with a plastic spoon and bringing it to Luke’s mouth. Shirley snorts, one eyebrow raised. They look silly. Steve is trying too hard, maybe. 

Vomit had turned Luke’s blood bright and sour, sliding thick like pus. The first time he woke up, there were faint orange marks on either side of Steve’s mouth from giving him CPR. They’re gone now. Both men are clean. 

Luke doesn’t really have the heart to say _my hands work, I didn’t die_. Instead, he lets the ice slide past his lips. They go on like this for a while until Luke pats Steve’s jumping knee and hikes up one corner of his mouth. Steve hesitates before settling back into the middle chair, ice chips set on the floor and lukewarm coffee on his lap, both hands curled around the Styrofoam cup. 

“So, what’s the plan,” Theo says. She has had time to process, and her eyes are no longer glazed over, her shoulders have dropped. Luke is jealous, wishes he could steady his heart and push out the anxious waves lapping over him. 

 

“We don’t need to rush anything,” Steve puts a hand on Luke’s shoulder, grounds him. “But I think it’d be a good idea if you stay with me for a while. Just until you’re… until,” he falters, losing the strength of his stare and looking to Shirley for the right words. 

“Maybe it would be simpler,” Shirley starts, watching Luke for a response, “if you just stayed up here. With me.” 

“Right, cause I’m moving out.” Theo nods, her mouth a thin line. Her eyes, though, are bright. Shirley studies her with nervous eyes, then she softens. 

“Only if you want. I have room for you both.” A slow smile pulls across Shirley’s face and Theo responds with her own wily look, face lighted. Steve looks between them and then arcs a brow at Luke who just snorts. 

“Whatever you want, Luke,” He says. His grip on Luke’s shoulder is firm, almost painful. His eyes are struck with a new discomfort, one that has seemingly snuck up on him in the last few days, a slice across his neck that leaves him open and fearful. Guilt, Luke thinks. 

He looks at Shirley and, grateful, nods.

##### Day 96

Luke’s chest hurts. There’s a hot stone settling in, sitting heavy and knotting into him, looping its fingers over and between each rib as if sewing itself to him. A tug. He rasps and bounces his fingers up, up, up until he’s holding his own heart. It’s stuttering and he breathes deep to slow it down. 

One, two, three, four.

##### Day 97

Sacred Heart holds onto Luke as long as it can, then releases him to his siblings. 

He dresses himself in the clothes Shirley brings for him; thick sweatpants and a thermal top. Steve stands by, sitting on the edge of the bed while Luke lifts one then another leg into the pants, resting a hip against the wall as he pulls them up. He sits to tug on the shirt, then takes a moment to rest. Steve hooks his arm over Luke’s shoulder and sits with him, breathing steadily and taking Luke with him. 

After a few minutes Shirley bustles in, knocking twice and then pushing through the door. She bundles Luke up in one of Kevin’s coats. It is dark green and keeps him warm, along with knitted red gloves and the wool socks she passes him. Steve and Shirley have sweatshirts on, jeans, tennis shoes. Luke has been dressed for winter. 

The walk to the car is long, and Luke’s body is stiff. He’s been stiff since… for some time. He walks haltingly to the automatic doors, then steps into the cold. It wasn’t this cold walking in. It’s as if the hospital has carved away layers of him, left him thinner and vulnerable. 

He stiffly buckles himself into the passenger seat and waits for Shirley to settle in beside him. Steve sits in the back, sliding into the middle seat and sighing. It makes Luke chuckle and he slouches slowly, turning his head to look at his older brother, resigned to his position in the backseat. Shirley gets in and passes her purse back to Steve, who sets it on the seat to his side and pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

“Do you remember the way?” He asks, already typing the address into google maps. Shirley slowly pulls out of the parking spot and traces the aisles of the lot, watching the other cars as she moves through. 

“I’ve got it,” she eventually answers, and Steve hesitates before tucking his phone back into his pocket. 

The car ride is just a little over two hours, and Luke sleeps through most of it, imagines Theo driving just a few miles away to her own home at the same time, setting off for a new independence he can only imagine. 

The car eases to a stop and a cool hand cards through his hair. Shirley smiles at him, amused at the drool sticking at his cheek, the drowsy look in his eyes. He looks out the window and sees that they have arrived at the guesthouse. Theo is already gone, the rental moving van leaving only a dribble of something on the driveway. 

Steve walks around and opens Luke’s door, grabs under his arm and pulls him out, one hand cupping the back of Luke’s head to protect it. Shirley walks ahead of them to unlock the door and she holds it open for them to shamble through. 

Shirley’s house smells like vanilla and lavender. He imagines her normal, everyday life in this clean house with her sweet family and scented candles burning. He imagines that this is what a home is supposed to be and is proud of her for finding it before the rest of them, for casting off the shadow of The House and running to something new that she could create. He thinks this home and its family must be a good thing, maybe the best thing any of them have created.

 

~*~

 

They all eat dinner around the table, Kevin and Shirley at each end, the children on one side, Luke and Steve on the other. It’s soup, easy on Luke’s stomach and simple to make on short notice. 

Across the table, Allie studies Luke. She doesn’t know him. It makes his stomach clench; how little he knows his niece and nephew. He remembers Shirley pregnant, irritable and flushed with excitement, he remembers pictures and standing over their cribs, Shirley holding his arm as if to keep him a safe distance, like he would have done something. Like he would reach for them, try to pick them up and drop them on the floor. 

Maybe he would have, who knows. 

But he had, in his silence, loved them. Carefully and from a distance. The moment his sister had announced her pregnancy he had loved each child, and when he met them it was like a well opening in his chest, this new love. 

Right at the beginning, he had been allowed to hold Jayden. At that time his family had known that there was something wrong with him but not the severity. And Theo had walked him into the hospital room with one gloved hand under his elbow, guiding him like a sick man. They had walked right up to the edge of the bed, looking down on Shirl and the little baby she was cradling. Small and soft-looking. A human made of pudding. 

Introductions had been made and then Theo sat on the edge of the bed and took the baby in her arms, face creasing. The corners of her mouth had hung low, like she would weep, but her eyes showed such strong joy that Luke wanted to grab Shirley, tell her that she had done it, that she had made a perfect thing. 

Then Theo had patted the blanket beside her and gestured for him to sit, and he followed. She rocked Jayden for a few more moments, cooing, and then shifted to pass him to Luke. After some awkward adjusting and Luke asking Shirley several times if she was sure this was okay, the warm bundle was tucked in the curve of his arm, elbow carefully supporting the head and Theo’s mindful hand remaining on the baby’s side. 

And that was it. He lived across the country and when he would visit for holidays he was out of his mind on drugs and anxiously avoiding the eyes of his feuding family. He missed out on his niece and nephew and now Allie is staring at him like he’s going to lunge across the table or turn a different color. 

“Allie,” Kevin says, tapping his spoon on the edge of his bowl. Allie glances over, head tilted. “Use your napkin,” he gestures at the corner of his mouth and she mirrors him, finding the dribbled broth sliding down her face and wiping it away with a giggle. 

 

~*~

 

Kevin walks the kids to their rooms, holding Allie’s hand and asking Jayden about some project he’s working on. Steve and Luke stand to the side, Luke with two pillows in his arms and Steve with a blanket, while Shirley removes the back cushion from the couch to widen it. She adjusts a sheet and then Luke throws down the pillows, turning and grinning at Steve. 

“You want both?” He fluffs them as he asks, swatting up and down with the flat of his palm. Steve snorts and nudges him out of the way, unfolding the blanket and spreading it out. 

“Is it comfortable?” Shirley asks. Steve sits down and nods, giving her the thumbs up and she rolls her eyes. “Great.” 

Kevin trots down the stairs, smile wide on his face. “We ready?” He asks, looking at Steve already on the couch. Shirley looks to Luke for confirmation and he nods, following them out of the house and across the way. 

 

~*~

 

Kevin spent the day doing laundry. He washed and dried sheets and pillowcases and a thick, butterscotch comforter, carried them in baskets to the guesthouse once Theo and Trish set off, and made the bed up. Luke could cry. He bites his lips and nods at Kevin, who smiles back, pats his shoulder and then Shirley’s before walking out into the night. Shirley watches him go, her eyes bleak. Something happened, Luke thinks. She’s not mad, now, but sad. 

Then she directs her attention to Luke, face flipping into a softer smile, eyes two dull stones. She untucks a corner of the comforter and pulls it up as he eases down into bed, then she lets it rest and, as if on instinct, tucks him in, the points of her fingers gently working the blanket in closer and under his body. He watches her do it and stays silent, saying nothing when she pauses at his feet, ticks her eyes to his face and pulls back. 

“Alright, Luke,” she says, stepping back, putting her hands into her pockets. “I’m close if you need anything.” She nods and he nods and then she backs up to the door and stumbles over her feet, tripping out. And he is alone. 

There is a bedside lamp resting on a TV tray beside the bed, spilling surprisingly bright light over the mattress. Its power combined with a streetlamp keeps the room from getting too dark. Luke is warm, finally, and comfortable. He is under some kind of supervision, but not so closely that he can’t have his own space. 

He has been here before, of course. Before Theo and before his first rehab, he had slept here, did some work in the funeral home, mostly cleaning and something like receptionist work. Smiling dully at families and using his lunchbreak to shoot up in the customer restroom. 

That had certainly been a different time. It’s uncertain if those times were worse or better. 

He lays back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. Popcorn ceilings. He’s never understood why people hate them so much. Pretty, pebbled lines throwing texture over the room. Like confetti. 

He rolls to his side and tries to take slow, even breaths. It’s quiet, no snoring or mumbling, no hitching breath of someone missing home or wanting a hit. He sighs, rolls to his other side. He imagines a tangled rope, curving into messy knots. Searches and finds one end and then pretends to slowly undo it, loosening the mess and letting his mind drone with the imagined task. 

A noise. Humming, one drawn-out note. Whizzing. He doesn’t move, holds his breath. It is behind his head, maybe, in the wall. There’s an animal in the wall. Or an insect. It might be a bee. Or maybe an electrical current- a cord just behind the wall, feeding the guesthouse. His fingers dig into the comforter. 

There is nothing to be afraid of. Houses make noise, even nice ones, even ones that smell like vanilla and lavender, even ones without ghosts. 

One, two, three, four…. 

His heart stutters, and the room is perfectly silent. Slowly, he rises. He is alone, still, and the wall behind him is solid. He carefully rests his ear against the wall and listens past his thumping pulse, listens for the long pull of wire or the saw of electricity.

##### Day 98

It’s still dark outside when Luke wakes. He’s on his back, one hand resting at his chest, and his eyes split open and look at the ceiling without a speck of weariness. A car drives by slowly, its headlights scanning the wall. It eases away and Luke blinks, sits up. 

He pads to the bathroom and showers. The water is hot enough to burn and he lingers under the stream longer than necessary and then carefully steps out. He catches his face in the mirror. The bruises around his eyes are fading but there’s a constant redness that suggests he’s just finished sobbing. A red, puffy sort of look. His jaw is sharper than it used to be, and his bones seem to carve their way through his skin, all the way down to his feet. 

He makes a sound of disgust and launches himself back into the bedroom, crouches by his bag and rummages around for a pair of sweats and a flannel. Clean and dressed, he checks the time and trudges over to the main house. 

Steve’s couch bed has been dismantled, pillows and sheets already tucked away out of sight. Steve is sitting with Allie on the loveseat, shuffling through a pile of papers. Drawings, Luke thinks. He can see flashes of color from across the room and remembers crayons and a treehouse that was never real. 

“Morning.” Shirley hands him a cup of coffee that he immediately burns his tongue on. She stands by him, watching Steve hum and haw about a doodle, nodding solemnly and asking careful questions. “How was last night?” 

“Hmm. Good. I really appreciate… thanks for giving me another chance.” He says, the words thick in his throat. He can’t look at her, but sees her nod from the corner of his eye. 

 

“You’ve earned it.” Is all she says before turning back to the kitchen, where Kevin is working on breakfast. Luke is still for a another few moments, then he steps around to the armchair, settles in to drink his coffee. Steve smiles at him and Allie glances up, realizes he is there, and does the same. 

“You know,” Steve says, gingerly tugging at one of Allie’s pigtails, “when your Uncle Luke was about your age, he drew all the time. Really good stuff.” He eyes Luke, one corner of his mouth quirked up. Luke sighs. 

Allie furrows her brow. 

“Why’d you stop?” she asks. Her voice is bright, clear as a bell and somehow so assured. He feels himself wither under her gaze, looks instead at Steve. 

“I got… busy.” He shrugs, but she hums sagely, nods like she knows what he means. Maybe she does. He has no idea how much Shirley and Kevin have told her about her absent uncle, the one that is there and then gone, shallow and brittle. 

“Yeah. I get busy too sometimes with school. Do you have a job?” Now Steve looks away, refocuses on one of Allie’s drawings, one with a bright yellow sun arced in the corner of the paper. Luke shifts. 

“No. I was in a program.” Is all he can think to say, and Steve inhales deeply through his nose, shuffles to another picture. 

“What kind?” Her eyes are round and clear. There is no judgement or disapproval to be found. She is only curious. Still, he looks to the kitchen and is disappointed to find no one rushing to his rescue. 

“Like a learning program. Skills training.” He stutters. She considers his answer and then takes half of the drawings from Steve’s hands, passes them over to Luke. He holds them carefully, like old heirlooms that might dissipate in his hands. 

Eventually they are called for breakfast. Pancakes. The sight of them makes Luke’s stomach turn and Kevin discretely passes him a bowl of brown sugar oatmeal.

##### Day 100

Luke walks cautiously to the basement because he knows his father is there. He takes the steps one by one, holding the railing and breathing as deeply as he can, watching his feet make their way down. The walls go from white to blue to grey and he is standing outside the heavy doors. He can feel the cold through the door, imagines that his dad is lying out on the slab, bloodless pale and eyes shut, skin waxy. 

He wants to see him. Alone. Luke remembers his last words to him and it feels like a fishing line hooked into his throat, pulling upward so tightly that he doesn’t know if he should vomit or collapse, hanging himself on the wire. Unkind words, angry words. He is sick of bitter endings. 

So, he makes his way down the steps and pushes open the door and.

And there he is. Hugh. Hugh is exactly where Luke had imagined, reclined on a long metal table, face passive and powdery. He is all fixed up for the day, made lovely by his daughter’s hand. And Luke doesn’t want to imagine what Shirley must feel each time this happens, if she will carry on this new tradition of dressing her own dead. 

He clears his throat and looks behind him to make sure he isn’t being watched, and then steps further into the room, letting the door slide shut behind him with a low click. He hesitates there, looking at his dad, watching very carefully for movement. Nothing. Hugh Crain is perfectly still and content in his place, waiting patiently to be lifted and moved into his casket and then sat in front of his loved ones. 

One last push, Luke takes a shaky breath and says, “Good tie.” Which is true; the tie is simple but odd, slicing a caramel line down the front of Hugh’s white shirt before slimming and disappearing out of sight. A sharp golden beam curving over his chest like a cord, something vital. 

Still, his father shows no signs of revival and Luke doesn’t know if he is relieved or disappointed. 

Certain now that his dad is truly dead, Luke closes the gap between them, places his warm hand over Hugh’s stiff and cold one, shocked at the color difference. Both pale, but one laced blue and the other blotchy pink. Luke swallows compulsively, lifts his free hand to brush through Hugh’s hair, then lets a finger trail across his forehead, over his closed eyes and then over the curve of his jaw before dropping the hand back to his side. He can feel the makeup but doesn’t disturb it, doesn’t leave a carved path. 

“Dad,” he tries, voice low and harsh. Hugh doesn’t hear him and Luke lets out a shaky breath, patting his dad’s hand again before taking a reluctant step away. This is not the last time he will see him, but it is the last time he will be alone with his father, possibly the last time he will touch him or will allow for the chance that a miracle will occur and the man will blink awake, disoriented but alive and maybe even a bit amused at how everyone had been just about to put him under for good. 

Luke stays, bites his lip and reaches forward to grip his dad’s shoulder, arms feeling loose and rubbery. He squeezes once, hard, remembering being a boy and rushing from his own room to his parents and trying to shake one of them awake, begging for a space between them to banish his nightmares, to make sleep easy. All those years ago, Hugh had been a light sleeper, and Luke could just poke him one time and he would open his eyes, fully awake and aware as if he had never actually been asleep at all, but waiting to be needed. Now, Luke jostles him and gets no response. 

“Okay,” Luke breathes, checking over his shoulder again. He shifts from one foot to the other; even knowing the other man is only a body- a cut and pasted paper doll, a dull mimic of what he once was- and can’t see his son, Luke cannot look at Hugh when he speaks, just scratches his shoulder with the hand he rested there, eyes looking beyond him at the sliding doors. “I love you, alright? Sorry I was…” he trails off, waving a hand loosely in the air and then finally letting his eyes drop to look at Hugh. 

Patting his dad’s shoulder one last time, Luke walks backwards out of the room and then turns towards the stairs, stomach churning, and goes to get ready. 

Luke doesn’t know how they get Hugh from the basement to the parlor, or what it looks like when they put him in the coffin, adjust his body so he seems nice and welcoming to onlookers. Luke carefully avoids the whole scene, sits on his bed in the guesthouse with a book open on his lap, not really reading but staring at the same line, running over it in his mind and carefully thinking about anything but what his sister and brother-in-law are doing in the other house. 

Eventually, there is a knock on the door. Luke lets out a clipped breath and walks slowly, smoothing out his tie on the way, and finds Steve waiting on the front steps, face calm but slightly glassy, lips pressed together and hands tucked in his pockets. 

“Ready?” Steve asks, clearly taking in his brother’s appearance. Luke doesn’t know what he looks like, if he is still whittled and sickly or if he has filled out and found color in the last few days. Based on the pinched expression that briefly passes over Steve before he retrains himself, it isn’t good. 

“Are you okay?” Luke asks before Steve can, raising his brows. For a moment, Steve looks taken aback. Luke frowns, steps out and closes the door behind him, wondering when someone last asked Steve how he was. Surely someone had to do it. Or maybe Luke just has a skewed idea of how often people are asked about their wellbeing.

“I’m alright, Luke.” They both start towards the main house, and Steve wraps his arm around Luke’s shoulders, holds him close so their steps are awkward and slightly jagged but warm. 

They detach when the front door opens and the sunlight breaks, the small parlor seemingly impervious to the rays, remaining muted and solemn. Steve ushers Luke in first and then follows close behind, trailing him over to Shirley and Kevin. They are facing each other, Shirley leaning against the wall with her arms crossed while Kevin says something in a hushed tone, voice sympathetic. Luke lets his feet land heavily as he approaches. 

Shirley catches his eye and stands straighter, smiling softly at her brothers. Kevin pauses, apparently reading the change, and then slowly turns to look at them as well, hands falling together at his stomach. 

“Hey guys,” He says, his own smile gentle. Luke studies him, deliberating whether there is any discernable difference between his behavior at this funeral versus Nell’s, if he reads the emotions in the room and alters himself to match. Maybe his shoulders are more relaxed, maybe he can finally be still, sit with the family as he couldn’t when they were collapsing around this hole he couldn’t understand, clinging to his wife as the vortex sucked them each in and scrambled them. 

Steve pats Kevin’s elbow then looks down the hall, down the rows of chairs and at their father. He holds very still, hands resting loosely at his sides and shoulders slightly hunched, as if he is ready to be berated. Steve stares at their father and Luke stares at Steve and Shirley looks between them, stepping away from the wall and coming closer. 

“Here we go again, huh?” She says, lips pulled in a thin line. But she takes Steve’s hand so gently, entwining their fingers and not making him look away or pulling him closer to the casket, just holding him and letting him find his footing. Steve makes a noise that isn’t quite a laugh, and it shudders between his teeth. 

Luke walks past them both, sliding a hand over Shirley’s shoulder as he goes. Seeing his dad like this is less startling now. This room, dark and full, makes death seem warmer. Under the lights, Hugh is dead but more relaxed. Tucked comfortably away. It’s less harsh, here, less cold and sterile. Maybe this is Shirley’s edge, prolonged exposure and desensitization alters the heart, not making it bad or vile, but undoubtedly different.

He takes a seat in the second row, far to the left. Close to his dad but slightly removed. Luke remembers when Hugh was really a dad, not just a visitor and a weekly phone call. Snippets of time when the man would lift Luke into his arms, would comfort him and protect him. Odd, now, to sit at his funeral, so close to him and yet more distant, a small part of Luke still waiting for a chance to be a son instead of a little brother or nephew. 

The sound of footsteps brings Steve to the front, Shirley on his heels, her hand still clasping his. Steve inhales sharply but remains where he is, doesn’t jerk away and bolt like he had with Nell, doesn’t panic and set off, rambling and breathless. Maybe he had been closest to Hugh, his loyal helper and eldest child. Hard to say; maybe only his siblings remember exactly how things used to be, their memories old but not quite so jumbled, so incomplete as Luke’s. 

Steve opens his mouth but says nothing, holds his breath at the ready but then releases it in a rush, turning to look back at Luke. Luke pulls a smile, ignoring how it feels displaced and crooked, and watches Steve mumble something to Shirley, freeing her with a nudge before he approaches and takes a seat. 

“Last one,” Steve says, lightly bumping Luke’s knee with his fist. Luke glances over at him but his brother does not meet his gaze, only stares forward, jaw jutting out. 

“Shirley could probably use a break.” Luke returns, throwing a glance over his shoulder. The doorbell rings and Kevin lurches to it, going from a bulwark to a mess of anxiety in a surging moment, and then relaxing again just before the door swings open. Luke hears Theo and Trish greet him, speaking quietly as they shed their coats. “And I’d like to see Trish outside a funeral, maybe.” 

Steve snorts but still doesn’t turn, doesn’t rise to his feet to go greet them. Luke shifts in his seat but stays put, reaches for his brother’s hand and squeezes it

“Damn,” is all Steve says, finally facing Luke with a small, sad smile, his eyes wet. Luke watches tears collect, bundling together at the edges of Steve’s eyes, turning his face red and pulling the muscles tight. Luke nods. He rubs a thumb slowly over Steve’s knuckles and remains silent. 

They stay seated as Theo and Trish make their way up. Theo stops farther away from the casket, not close enough to touch or for a private moment, she just halts and stares. Steve pointedly looks away, fingers digging into his own knees. Luke watches his sister through the corner of his eye, face angled forward as Trish whispers and rubs Theo’s back. 

After a moment, Theo huffs and takes the final steps. Luke watches her tuck both of her hands behind her back as she leans down to look at him, cautious to not make contact with Hugh or the casket. She stands over him very briefly, face solemn, like she is studying him, trying to unwind something quite complicated. 

Finally, she turns away from the body and points herself at the two of them, her mouth downturned, eyes hard. Trish’s hand stays on her lower back, not guiding but maintaining contact. It’s a comfort that she has that, that his sister finally found the support she deserves, and Luke offers a small smile. 

Trish’s teeth are white and even, two neat rows that both show when she grins. Luke has never seen a smile so bright in a funeral, and the look of her expands his own smile into something fuller and more genuine. Beside him, Steve makes a noise and rises to his feet. Luke doesn’t follow him, doesn’t walk with them back out to the front, away from his dad. 

Theo says something that Luke doesn’t understand as they leave, their feet shuffling slowly as they walk in a row, careful not to trip on each other’s heels. Luke sits, cracks his knuckles. There had been people at Nell’s wake, and then at her funeral. People he had never met, people who loved her and wanted to see her one last time, to say goodbye and cry and get some sort of closure. He doesn’t expect the same for his father, can’t imagine that the man had a secret group of friends who didn’t mind his crazy stories or how absent and foggy he always seemed to be. Who didn’t care that he talked to his dead wife and didn’t visit his five fucked up kids. Certainly, Hugh had died years ago. The Crain children became orphans out in the hills, in The House. 

The doorbell sounds again and Luke turns, arm hooked over the back of his seat. Steve opens the door and is immediately swept into Aunt Janet’s arms, pulled down and wrapped up. Steve says something that is muffled in her shoulder and she tuts and hugs him tighter as the family gathers around. Luke watches from a distance as they each get their turn. With a sigh, he turns back to look at Hugh. 

“Bet you’d love this,” He says under his breath, arching a brow and rising to his feet. 

When Luke gets to her, Aunt Janet’s face crumbles, going from soft and sad to distressed. She pulls him in, practically folding him in half to bring him to her level. She smells the same as she used to, back when he was tiny enough that she would lift him onto her lap or sit with him in the same small bed to hear about nightmares. Herbal, medicinal. All those years he gave her trouble, Luke always loved his aunt, always craved her warm affection, her work-worn hands holding his, her round face not quite understanding. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” She says, brushing her fingers through his hair before reluctantly releasing him. He stands straight, averts his eyes from hers. Still, he can feel her taking in his ragged appearance. She looks so devastated, he must be a thing to behold, must wear his shame like a cloak. 

“Hi, Auntie.” He says, then moves to stand beside Steve. To somewhat hide himself behind his brother. Steve looks at him but doesn’t step away, doesn’t roll his eyes and push him forward to be seen. 

Shirley wraps an arm around their aunt and walks her down to look at Hugh, the rest of the family following a few paces behind. Shirley and Aunt Janet speak quietly at the front, their voices butter soft, as if trying not to disrupt the room. Luke doesn’t see the point, doesn’t know what there is to hide now, what could be said that everyone doesn’t already know. Maybe she’s thanking him, or damning him, or simply saying goodbye. It doesn’t make much of a difference at this stage. 

 

~*~

 

The scene is familiar. The four remaining Crain children, Kevin, Trish, and Aunt Janet sitting higgledy-piggledy through the parlor, staring placidly down the aisle at a single open casket. 

At first, it looks like no one will have anything to say. No poems for Hugh Crain. They sit and look at him and no one moves to the podium. And then Steve gets to his feet. He runs his palms over his pant legs and walks forward, then digs a folded paper out of his pocket and holds it up in one hand, the other held under his elbow in support. He looks more like a boy giving a report than a son delivering a eulogy. 

“Hard to say what Dad was. To me. I mean, when I was a kid, he was everything. My whole world, the person I wanted to emulate. And then he wasn’t. But, uh… I talked about him a lot in my book. It wasn’t all flattering. Well, most of it wasn’t. There were glimpses, though, of how I used to see him. What he used to be, before everything. So, um, I wanted to read some of that now.” 

Steve shifts his weight to the other foot and seems to pull inward, putting on his glasses and refocusing on the now unfolded paper. Luke looks down at his knees, shuts his eyes. He read the book years ago. Before it came out and a few more times after. It was odd to see the whole fucked up story from Steve’s perspective, to read what Luke himself had said, what he remembered Nell and Theo and Shirl saying. All of it in print, stolen from their frightened recollections and put on display. 

Much of what Steve had written about their father was kind. His own bitterness didn’t seep into the pages until near the end, when Steve had to replace a conclusion with insights and opinions, had to deliver some sort of where are they now column and give the readers something to hold on to. Before that, though, he had been as open and honest as he could be, simply taking the truth of his siblings and making it lovely and readable. Leaving out his own skepticism. 

And the book had been well written. It had surprised Luke when he first read it (and then again later, when he was clean and had to make sure it wasn’t something else Luke made up in his head) how well his brother could write, what a good story he could tell and how nicely he could make it all seem. Beautiful words for their ugly story, plain and honest. 

Steve clears his throat, stands before his small family, and reads: 

“There are things I will never understand about my father, secrets I will never know. But as a boy I felt that I truly knew him. I believed that the man I saw before me was the entirety of the man, and that I could be certain that my dad was the kind of person everyone should try to be. He was a fixer. He was able to see things as they were and to know what they had the potential to be. And he had the will to make it so. “ 

Steve pauses and then refolds the paper, tucking it into his front pocket and then returning to his seat beside Luke, who still looks at the ground. 

 

~*~

 

“When I die, just throw my body in a lake or something. I don’t need this.” Luke waves back at the house and then shoves his hands into his pockets, shuffles his feet. Steve’s expression is hard to read and Luke stops trying, looking instead at the ashy sky. 

“Let’s hold off on that for a while. Crain is an endangered species.” 

“You gunning for next place, Luke?” Theo asks, voice leaden. He turns to see her face and finds it faux serious, only the corners of her eyes creased with humor. Steve puts a hand on Luke’s shoulder, glares at their sister with a disapproving sound, but Luke smiles. 

“Well, plot space is filling up fast and if I want something with a view I need to hurry.” He says dryly, arching a brow. Theo hums understandingly and Shirley rolls her eyes, quickens her pace towards the car. 

No one says anything about how Luke probably should have died in place of Nell, how if it had been him the world wouldn’t feel quite so bent out of shape, how things would have kept turning normally, with perhaps a slight kink but no real worries, just frustration and sadness but certainly not surprise. And if Luke were to die tomorrow or the next day, if he were to give in and overdose, no one would be much more surprised than they would have been then. The surprise won’t come for years, and then still maybe there will be an inkling of sure, of course. Because Luke dying makes sense, is something they have all come to terms with, including himself.

##### Day 101

Steve only has one small bag, and it sits in the backseat beside Luke as he, Steve, and Shirley head down to the airport. Shirley is driving and Steve taps away on his phone. 

Luke leans his head back and watches the city go by, cars rushing ahead and pulling back for stoplights, avoiding pedestrians and reflecting in the shiny windows of new buildings. There’s a man crouched in an alley, a blue tarp wrapped around him and his feet bare in the cold and an electric guilt racks Luke. I know him, he thinks, that’s me. The car pulls forward and Luke watches the man until he’s out of view. Then he closes his eyes and tries to take a nap. 

“I had a dream last night,” Shirl says, then stops herself, shaking her head and releasing a breath. Tries again, “I was holding a baby.” Luke watches Steve put his phone down, slowly turn to look at her. 

“Are you…?” Steve idles, and is cut short when Shirley snorts. “Ok, do you want to be?” Steve is making a face at her, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Luke isn’t sure why this conversation is happening at all. 

“No. It wasn’t my baby.” Now she looks at him pointedly and he clears his throat, shifts back in his seat. 

“Strange,” is all he says. 

They make it to the airport and get Steve processed, walk him as far as they are allowed. He turns to face them, gives them both long hard looks and then reaches for Shirley. She moves to him slowly but there is no hesitation in her hug, pulling him in close and holding him firmly. He whispers something in her ear that isn’t for Luke to hear and then steps back from her, his mouth a grim line. 

Next, he steps to Luke and draws him in, one hand cupped at the back of his neck. It never seems right to be taller than his big brother. Taller, somehow, than all of his siblings. He remembers sprouting up beyond Nell and crying about the loss, about hovering over his equal. She had laughed so softly, shook her head at his silly tears until he laughed too. 

“Take care of yourself,” He mumbles into Luke’s shoulder, and Luke hums in return. They pull back and Steve gives him a firm shake by the lapels before releasing him and hefting his bag over his shoulder and turning around with a final wave. “I’ll call as soon as I can. I have business to take care of, but you’ll hear from me by tomorrow.” 

And he goes, Shirley and Luke watching his back and he walks off. They stand in silence for a few minutes, people bustling around them, until Shirley releases a breath and pats his arm, telling him it’s time to go home.

##### Days 102-106

As much as Luke is made to feel welcome, he doesn’t quite fit into the (now slightly stilted) rhythm of the Harris house. 

Something happened between Shirley and Kevin, a forgiveness, perhaps, or something more. Last he saw them, Kevin was being banished and Shirley was fuming, all of her collected and cherished rage churning just below her skin, rising in thick steam. And now there is a cautious love, both of them standing together like twin bruises, deep and purple, tender but gingerly clasping hands, bumping shoulders. Something happened. Luke will never know, may never understand what that kind of love means or where it comes from, but he is grateful that is exists and that his older sister has found it. 

Luke wanders. He lays in bed at night and tries to sleep, wakes up and gets ready, joins the family for meals, sits and heals and waits and waits and waits to finally know what exactly he’s waiting for. 

He doesn’t know where to stand; what is his place in this family home? How can he exist in such a warm bubble? Last time he lived here he was vacant, a wasting human body, lying stolid on his bed. 

Now he is clear-headed to the extent he is capable of being. Now he sits across from his sister- a mother, a business woman- her husband, and their two children. He’s the weird uncle, quiet and anxious and sharing their meals. 

He exists along the fringes, dipping in and out of their day to day, wandering through the door and into their dining room, sitting on the couch. 

The discomfort lacks resentment- he has exiled himself without prompting. Luke hasn’t untangled himself from years of surviving on only himself and phone calls, can’t look at his loved ones without remembering how he had lied and manipulated and begged, always begged. He sees how they look at him gently, some part of them waiting for him to fall apart again and to collapse to his knees, once more a small writhing thing that just wants and takes.

##### Day 107

Luke takes the kids to the library for a book sale, following them down to the basement and releasing them in the stacks.

The basement is divided into several parts, separated by glass walls so the interior of each room is clearly visible. The large center room is crammed with bookshelves, a sign right in front of the stairs proclaiming it a Book Sale with price listings underneath. To the right, there is a small room with a long conference table surrounded by jumbled and displaced wheelie chairs. On the far side of the room is a whiteboard, smeared with poorly erased black marker. Another room, larger than the other two, looks like a small computer lab with a large printer shoved in the corner. 

Luke stands at the entrance, uncertain what to do with himself while he waits. There are plastic bags folded in the corner and he takes one, letting it flap loosely in his hand as he idles around, shuffling through the shelves for his own picks, dropping books in for their covers or because the brief description on the back isn’t entirely abhorrent. Most of the books are damaged or yellowed with age, some of them with plain hard covers of one color and others small enough to be shoved in a pants pocket. 

He fills his bag and wanders around, waiting for Jayden and Allie to bolt up with their own choices so they can go back upstairs and pay. Up on the wall nearest the computer lab is a stuffed bulletin board, papers pinned over and around each other, some of them due to be removed. Luke sighs and walks closer, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

It’s a busy town, apparently. Papers declare various events, some located in the park or the school, others small meetings held in the library. A bake sale here, kittens for sale over there, and a notice that the library’s Lost and Found box can be located at the front desk and that items held for two weeks will be donated. 

Luke shuffles through the papers, occasionally pausing to listen for the kids, returning to his busywork when he catches them laughing or stomping around too loudly for the library but not quite loudly enough for him to decide it is his job as a distant uncle to discipline them. 

And then he stops, hand resting on a plain white paper with simply typed print across it. No muss, no fuss. He licks his lips, glances over his shoulder again, no longer checking for children but for nosey eyes. Narcotics Anonymous. Meeting in room B2 every Wednesday at 6 PM. A large blue arrow still smelling of sharpie points to the right, and Luke follows it to the conference room. He walks over. Beside the door is a clear plate, and the paper behind it lists the scheduled appointments for the room for the next two weeks. 

Low and behold, in small print eighteen small blocks to the right of Wednesday is ‘NA, Simone’. 

Luke backs away, the skin around his neck suddenly feeling tight, and returns to the small room to find Allie and Jayden. 

 

~*~

 

It doesn’t take long for the awareness of his own freeloader status to start to get to Luke. 

“Do you think,” he hesitates, feels a bit like a teenager asking to borrow the car, for just a little wiggle room. Please, auntie, I’m practically an adult. Please, Auntie, swear I won’t shoot up in the backseat, swear I won’t pass out and sleep for four hours until someone bangs on the window to make sure I _am_ sleeping and not actually dead. “I would like to do some work. For you.” 

Shirley’s eyebrows cinch in and she puts the urn she was dusting back on the shelf to look at him. Her mouth is quirked into a questioning smile and she crossed her arms. 

“You want to work in the funeral home? You hated it before.” She says. She doesn’t sound resentful, just slightly amused in the way any big sister would be when her baby brother was asking for a job. He’s remembering last time and hoping that she doesn’t look back on it the same way he does; him sitting on the toilet seat, mouth gaping and veins warm. 

“I wanna do something. All the vegetating is driving me a little crazy.” He loops his finger in a swirl at his temple and she swats his hand down, face pinched. 

“Right,” she mumbles, picking up another urn in contemplation. Luke watches her sweep the duster over the shelf and around the urn before replacing it. “I get that, I just don’t want you to push yourself yet. You were just in the hospital.” She’s nodding at him like she made her choice and this is the end of the conversation and he scrambles to get it back. 

“I could just do desk work. Answer phones, make appointments.” He follows Shirley out of the room, tracks her to the closet where she stores the duster. She puts it on its hook with a sigh and turns to face him, finally still. 

“Okay. Okay, we can do that.” She says, stern, looking him directly in the eye. He tries not to twitch. “But rest just one more week, for my sake. So I don’t feel like I’m putting my ailing brother to work too soon, alright?” 

Knowing it’s the best he’s going to get for now, Luke smiles and nods. He steps away, then back to her, having to slouch a little to pull her into a hug. She squeezes him hard. 

“God, you’re tall,” she laughs, knocking him lightly on the shoulder before disappearing into her office.

##### Day 109

Luke laces up his tennis shoes and steps outside. He can see Kevin stretching on the porch, reaching for his toes, pulling a leg up behind him and catching the side of the house for balance. Their eyes catch and a broad smile takes over Kevin’s face. Luke smiles back, offers a little wave. Apparently taking that as an invitation, Kevin trots over and Luke keeps his smile from faltering. 

“You heading out?” Kevin asks. His breath flares out and dissipates in a gray wisp. Luke itches for a smoke. 

“Yeah. Just a walk.” _I’m not good ye_ t, he thinks, _sorry I haven’t healed_. But the prospect seems to advance Kevin’s happiness, not eradicate it. He pats his own chest and points to the north. 

“I like to jog around the park. Lots of things to look at and the trail’s pretty good,” Kevin says, and Luke nods. “You’re welcome to join.” 

Luke’s stomach squirms. 

“Uh, I think I’m going that way.” He gestures to the west. Kevin looks out in that direction, mouth twisting for a moment, then he settles back and smiles. All smiles for Luke, it seems. 

“Alright, happy hiking,” Kevin chuckles and pats Luke’s arm before turning away and setting off at a steady pace, looking both ways before crossing the street. Luke watches him for a beat longer before facing west and starting. 

He walks slowly, purposelessly. Without a destination in mind, he stares mindlessly ahead and idles his way along. The streets are wide, open and gray. 

He takes a few turns here and there, avoiding other early risers and joggers. He wonders what he must look like to these suburban families. Like a ghost, pale and toiling down the streets, haunted and floating with lost purpose? Or maybe something more common; a broken man, an outcast, trudging along searching for a reason to be anywhere at all. 

After a while, Luke finds himself stopped at the entrance of a small, brick building. It is centered between a purple floral boutique and an eggshell blue hair salon, old and rustic and red. Like a sore festering at a stretch of otherwise healthy flesh, a slash on the landscape. There are signs in the window about donations and a metal drop box to the left of the door. He pulls the hatch open, finds a gaping maw inside. He lets it swing shut, screeching on the way. 

He takes a few steps back, narrowly remaining on the sidewalk and not stepping into the gutter, and looks up for the store name. The name is large and white with chipped and faded red paint outlining each letter, stretched at length over the door, framed by two windows. Hutchinson’s Used Books. 

Luke stays there for a few moments, looking into the dark windows. What time is it? Why are they closed? If he squints, he can see long, beige metal shelves stretching all the way to the back wall, and an open doorway that might lead to more books. He blinks, looks for the hours listing. They’re closed on the weekend. He doesn’t know if that’s strange for a bookstore, if they’re just closed like libraries are on Sundays or if this one is out of the ordinary. He notes the hours and turns around, crossing the street and heading home. 

By the time he gets back, he is warm under the wind and his skin feels pleasantly feverish. He slips into the guesthouse, eyeing the windows of the main house and hoping no one noticed how long he was gone. There’s still a paranoia that if he steps slightly out of place everyone will believe he is using again, remember all of the times that he did fail them and paste them over now, when he hasn’t. Forgiveness can be fickle. And their concern isn’t unwarranted. 

He looks at the clock. He’s been out for two hours.

##### Day 116

They go to Theo’s new place for Thanksgiving. It’s a small house just half an hour away. Luke helps Kevin hustle the kids into the car, carefully helping Ally buckle her seatbelt and smiling at her when she thanks him. Kevin is moving a little stiffly and Luke wonders what he’s worried about. It’s not the usual in-law holiday dinner they’re having. He practically lived with Theo for a whole clock of time and they seemed to get along fine before the funeral, when everyone’s dirty laundry was scattered around. But Kevin and Theo have both been forgiven for taking the money. Maybe, Luke thinks, he’s afraid that having all of them in the same room with bring on similar results, or start up old battles that return Shirley to her anger. 

Luke pats him on the back and smiles encouragingly before slipping into the backseat beside Jayden who doesn’t look up from his game. 

Kevin drives while Shirley gives him directions, frowning at her phone and telling him where to turn, when to switch lanes so he can turn left in 0.5 miles. Luke watches the town zip by the window, falling away and then expanding into something more urban, more people out walking along the sidewalk. 

The house is small with a gate wrapping around it, marking the size of Theo’s yard. It is squat and brick, not quite cheery from the outside but solid, sturdy. Shirley leads the way up the walk, carrying her green bean casserole carefully with both hands, and rings the doorbell with her knuckle, raising the whole dish. 

After a moment, Theo flings the door open. She eyes them all with a grin and then steps out of the way, welcoming them into her new home. Luke meets her eyes as he sidles past, and she is searching, face clear but eyes shifted with curiosity. He smiles stiffly and hurries into the living room, where Trish is rising out of an armchair, her smile so much wider and more open than he expected. 

She hugs each of them, shaking hands and introducing herself, before asking if they’d like drinks and heading for the kitchen with Kevin in tow. Shirley and Luke are left alone together, standing side by side, watching Theo. She is still standing in the hall with the kids, shuffling Jayden’s hair with one hand and twirling Ally with the other. 

Luke glances at Shirley, and, as expected, she is already scoping out the house. Her eyes are searching, not judgmental. She’s looking for fixable flaws or clues that the house will literally collapse in a thunderstorm, something she can warn Theo about to prevent tragedy. She’s looking out for danger. 

He lets her do her thing, sliding down into an armchair. There’s a football game on the television and he pretends to watch it, not knowing who the teams are or who he should be routing for. 

After a few minutes, Theo joins them in the living room, sitting on the couch with Allie in her lap and Jayden trailing off to the kitchen to see what Trish and Kevin are up to, seeing if they need any help. 

“Liking the guesthouse?” She asks, no sign of resentment in her face or tone. Luke nods, and, like a domino, she nods too. 

Trish, Kevin, and Jayden walk in, then, Jayden and Kevin each holding two drinks and Trish balancing three. They are distributed carefully and everyone takes a seat.

There’s a tense energy, but it’s deflated, old and worthless. Things happened, time to move on. They all gather around the table for dinner, Luke sat between Kevin and Jayden, directly across from the keen eyes of Theo, who carefully watches him throughout the meal. He plays with his fork, head down and raising his eyes to follow the conversation. He avoids making eye contact with Theo unless she says something directly to him. Under the table, he digs his nails into the palm of his hand and waits for it to be over, waits until they can all pile back into the car and he can hide away in the guesthouse, be alone for a while until the tension in his shoulders eases and he can breathe calmly again. 

“Uncle Luke,” Jayden says so quietly that Luke looks at him uncertainly, unsure that he had actually spoken. Jayden slides his hand over and presses his pinky into Luke’s side, and Luke angles himself slightly to give the boy his attention, trying to be discrete without knowing why. 

“Yeah?” He says, barely moving his lips. From the corner of his eye he sees crinkles form around the boy’s face, a small, amused smile. He leans in closer to his uncle. The rest of the family is invested in some story Kevin is sharing, something about a dog at the grocery store, and they don’t notice the side conversation, don’t hear or acknowledge their whispers. 

Luke leans in, slouching so his ear is closer to the boy, eyes on Kevin but mind with Jayden. 

“When I get nervous, I do this,” and Jayden shifts back in his chair and holds up a toothpick. Luke watches as Jayden begins twining it around his fingers, looping in and out, starting at his thumb and pointer finger and traveling through to the ring finger and pinky. He goes through this several times slowly before lowering the hand and passing the toothpick to Luke. Luke holds it in his palm and then settles his hands to his lap, half listening to the conversation and half focusing on imitating his nephew, gradually getting the toothpick to do what he wants and then locking in, absorbed in the repetition. 

Eventually, dinner ends and they all begin clearing the table. Luke stands, pocketing the toothpick, and puts a hand on Jayden’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he says solemnly, and Jayden just nods before following his sister into the sitting room, demanding that she doesn’t touch the remote. 

Luke follows Trish and Theo into the kitchen and helps them scrape scraps into the trash. They rinse and stack each plate in the sink and then pour out a generous amount of soap before switching on the water, chatting idly as the suds build up. 

“Go ahead to the living room, Luke,” Trish says, flashing him a big smile. It doesn’t seem pushy or impatient or even slightly fake. His heart shifts and he smiles at his feet. 

“Actually,” he starts, clears his throat and looks at her with a frown, “could I do the dishes? I want to, uh, help out. Clean.” He gestures at the now full sink and she reaches over to stop the stream of water, eyebrows raised. 

“You really don’t have to, Luke. You’re a guest.” She says. Before Luke can respond, Theo brushes her knuckles on the other woman’s arm, a gentle motion, and meets her eyes. 

“He’ll wash, I’ll rinse.” Trish looks between the two of them, eyebrows still arced, and then shrugs, bumping shoulders with Theo before wandering out of the room to meet with the rest of the family. 

Luke smiles tensely as he rolls his sleeves up. He grabs a scrubber and shows it to her, and she nods that it’s the right one. He starts working on the plates, carefully wiping each one down before passing it over to her so she can run it under the tap and place it in the rack to dry. They go one like this until he pulls the plug and lets the water drain, drying his hands on a rag and watching the water go down. 

“How are you, Luke,” she asks, and some of the tension breaks from his shoulders, shooting down his back in a final shock of discomfort before falling away. Almost a relief to speak, to stop avoiding it. 

“I’m really good. The guesthouse is good. I’m helping out a little, as much as Shirley will let me,” he speaks but still can’t look at her. He can tell she is watching him, nodding silently as he talks, face unexpressive. And he can’t turn and face her. Of his siblings, he never expected Theo to be the scariest. Maybe it’s just that she will unapologetically tell him the truth, will touch him and know if he deserves good humor or shame. Certainly, he doesn’t want to see the truth reflected back at him, the truth that he knows she must see when their hands brush, knuckles bumping when he passes a plate to her. He cringes when she pauses, like she is getting a message, and then resumes her half of the work. He can’t stand to know. 

“I don’t think,” she starts, then stops with a huff. “Luke. _Luke_ ,” her voice is rising, but she doesn’t reach for him. Her shoed foot sweeps out and snaps dully on his calf. “Can you look at me?” 

“Sorry,” he says, and half turns towards her, setting his eyes on her chin. She is still for a moment and then her body cants to the right, arms crossing, tongue pushing out her bottom lip in frustration. When they were teenagers living under the same roof, getting under each other’s feet and bickering good naturedly, getting her to react like this was almost an accomplishment, her irritation amusing. Now it settles like thick ink in his stomach, makes him shy away. 

“I get it,” she says, “it’s hard to… come back, after everything. Right? It’s fucking hard to function like a person. Or at all.” He considers this, trying to decide how honest he wants to be, and then decides that there’s no point hiding anything from her. She probably already knows. 

“Yeah. Yeah.” He says, shifting his weight to the other foot, rolling his sleeves back down. They’re more wrinkled now than they were before. The toothpick prickles in his pocket but he doesn’t reach for it, taps his fingers on his thigh and waits. 

“I want you to be here,” she says with so much feeling that it shakes him, makes him still. He swallows hard, meets her eyes. Finds them wide and sad, but not scared, not quite angry but defensive. Why is she defensive? 

“I am,” he says, uncertain. “Where else would I be? There’s nowhere to go,” it’s meant as a joke, but he says it dully, looking down at her and feeling his jaw clench, back teeth grinding. His shame slithers into something different, and he jams his hand into his pocket, sticks the toothpick into his thumb hard. 

“I think you’re…” she looks over his shoulder, chokes something back and shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says instead, “I’m just… you’re doing really well, Luke. Seriously.” She leans forward, bopping his shoulder with her covered wrist. She isn’t going to touch him now. Whether it’s for her or him, he is grateful. Laughter erupts in the other room and Luke turns to the open doorway, steps towards it. 

“We finished,” he said, stabbing a thumb at the drying rack, the now empty sink, “let’s join ‘em.” She nods, moving past him and leading the way to the rest of the family.

##### Day 121

The Narcotics Anonymous meeting is in the library basement every Wednesday and Sunday at 6:30 PM. Luke looks around at the books on the top floor, wasting time so he isn’t too early, so he doesn’t have to mingle with the other addicts or the group leader. 

Eventually, he makes sure no one in the library is looking at him and wanders down the stairs. There’s a white piece of paper with NA Meeting scribbled in blue pen taped to the glass. Inside, there is a frizzy, gray haired woman sitting at the head of the table with the white board behind her, rocking her wheelie chair and talking comfortably with a younger man. Four other chairs are taken up, the occupants listening to the man and woman or fiddling on their phones. 

There’s no reason to be nervous. Luke knows the deal, has sat in a circle with other addicts and talked through his shit. He walks the street with people who have read his brother’s book and know more about his fucked-up head than any stranger should. There is no reason to feel so scared. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets and eases the door open, smiling at the woman when she nods at him in greeting. No one else acknowledges him and he is grateful, finds a seat near the opposite end of the table and picks at his nails until the meeting starts. 

“Hey guys. For anyone new here, my name is Simone,” she introduces herself, smile digging thick lines at her eyes and the corners of her mouth. 

The meeting goes on, Simone and three others recounting their latest struggles, detailing their cravings and frustration and the loss of faith their family once had for them, the lack of support, their own shame in betraying their loved ones but still being allowed to be with them, still being held up by those that they have hurt. 

Luke stays silent. There isn’t much more for him to say. 

Before returning home, Luke pulls into a local store and walks the aisles until he finds a small, round fish tank in the back. He buys it, setting it in the passenger seat for the drive home and then carrying it to the guesthouse, where he places it on top of the bookcase. He pulls a Ziploc baggy from his sock drawer and empties it into the tank, listening to the clatter of four chips at they bounce and rest.

##### Day 132

It’s 6 PM on Saturday, and Luke’s phone, a cheap flip phone that never rings or chirps or vibrates, jolts him from his notebook with an upbeat tune. He looks at the lit screen: Steve Calling. _Something is wrong_ , he thinks. He saw Steve a few weeks ago, would be seeing him in a little over a month for Christmas. There’s no good reason for Steve to be calling. 

“Hey?” He answers the phone, turning to look at the door behind him, at the tall windows all around the room. Steve’s short laugh translates into crackles over the speaker. Luke’s brows furrow and he looks back down at his notebook, as if Steve has somehow seen what he’s written and is delighted to still be the writer of the family, the talented one. 

“Hi, just calling to see how it’s going. Shirley driving you crazy yet?” 

That’s too simple, Luke thinks, too normal. He stands, then sits back down. Turns sideways in his chair so he’s facing away from the window. 

“Oh, no. Everything’s fine.” He shakes his head at himself. 

_I keep hearing this noise when I go to sleep, he thinks. I hear this long, pulling sound. A buzz. Like wire twining around a pulley, winding back slowly. It doesn’t catch or pause or change in any noticeable way. I hear this noise when I close my eyes, so steady that it lulls deeper and deeper, following me into my dreams, or maybe starting there, and becoming so intrinsic that I wonder if it’s not always there, involving itself in my day, a string turning over and hooking in my ears without an origin, lifting something up and up and up and closer and closer and…._

“That’s good. How’re you keeping yourself entertained in the burbs?” Steve asks. Luke can hear him clicking a pen, wonders what he is working on. 

“I go on walks.” 

“That’s a lot of walks.” 

“I guess,” Luke hums in response. There is a long, drawn-out silence and Luke can feel his stomach sinking. 

“So. Don’t take this the wrong way,” Steve eventually says in a tone Luke recognizes as his I’m about to trample all over your shit and spit in your face but I love you so try not to be too pissed off voice. Luke braces himself. “How, uh… what’s your count at? Currently?” 

It only takes a second for Luke to understand. Of course, what else could it be but how many days clean are you. How clean, how good have you been? Discomfort seethes in his gut and he clears his throat to tramp it down, pushes his chair back on its hind legs and holds there. 

“I’m… I guess it depends.” He says slowly, tapping his fingers on the desk. 

“Oh. On what?” Steve is trying to sound unconcerned. Luke thinks back to high school after Steve moved out and Luke would get the occasional phone call after he got caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, like Aunt Janet had summoned him for a second round of discipline, or to play some twisted and awkward good cop to her bad cop, or vice versa depending on the situation. Steve would start off asking about his day and school and then gradually work the mishap into the conversation, trying to sound like a simple, concerned older brother and not the distant and disapproving _man_ who Luke hardly heard from anymore. 

There’s no room to be angry; Luke’s more than made up for and surpassed anything his brother ever did to him or any misplaced sense of abandonment. 

“I just don’t know if after what happened in The House I need to start over or not.” Luke says it quickly, chest tightening at the thought. God, starting at day one at this point, dropping all of the progress he had been making and starting anew. The idea is crushing. 

Steve hmm’d, thought over the situation for long enough that Luke was uncomfortable in the silence and searched out the dark window for something to look at, to focus on beyond his wait for judgement. 

“I don’t think ghosts manipulating you into shooting up rat poison counts as breaking your streak.” Steve eventually concludes, and there’s a feeling like a balloon bursting, finally popping and breaking, bits flying every which way. He breaths out and chuckles, nods to himself. 

“Alright. Then I guess a hundred thirty-two.” Luke finally says. There’s guilty pride there, a rotten sense of accomplishment he’s not sure he has a right to feel. Is it acceptable to be proud of correcting yourself? He doesn’t know, doesn’t know if he should let himself accept or claim any self-satisfaction when he’s basically slapping a Band-Aid over an old and infected knife wound, covering himself best he can and hoping everyone else accepts his methods, hopes they don’t resent how he can never truly make up for all the wrong that he committed in the last years. 

“Wow.” Steve whispers, maybe not intending for Luke to hear. But he does, uncertain how to interpret it. “How do you keep track? Do you mark it on a calendar?” 

Luke shifts in his chair, uncertain where he stands with this line of questioning. No one really asks these sorts of questions, they just want to know that he is clean, maybe the number of days. Not details on his process. He doesn’t even know if he has a definable process beyond just don’t fucking do it, follow the steps, cling to somebody and count. He doesn’t think these are explanations Steve would understand or accept. 

“If I lose track, I think of the day after I went in and do the math from there.” 

_Don’t ask me why the day after and not the day of, don’t make me explain Nell’s favor or getting well or any of the shit I’ve done or said. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask._

Steve hums, like this makes perfect sense. 

“Is this time good for you?”

“Huh?” 

“Six on Saturdays.” 

“Oh. Sure.” He says it like maybe he’ll have plans, like he’ll have to make sure, like who knows what next week will look like. Ultimately, next week will look like this one: he’ll do the same things as everyone shifts around him. Next week he will exist, same as this week and the week before. 

“Good. I’m… yeah, we should talk then,” Steve bumbles, and Luke slowly smiles.

##### Day 135

What starts as a minor ache, barely noticeable under the various pains and discomforts following him from The House, blossoms into something uglier. A sharp strike between his ribs that carries on, hitting over and over until he breaks into a sweat. Thump, thump, thumping along with his pulse. 

At any given moment- over breakfast, in bed, walking up the stairs- his heart will stutter in a panic and Luke is taken by a surge of pain that has him reaching for something steady, one hand gripping the stairwell and the other wrenching his shirt, massaging knuckles over his chest. 

Luke catches himself, breathes through it and waits for it to fade. 

_Go away_ , he thinks, _just fucking stop_. 

Of course, Luke rarely gets what he asks for.

##### Day 138

It’s already late when Allie finds Luke swiveling in Shirley’s office chair, carding through brochures about the right casket and respectable flower arrangements. She pushes open the door without knocking and he stares over the desk at her, a pamphlet unfolded in his hands, and he rushes to refold it, feeling oddly guilty.

She grins at his struggle and then points at the far right of the brochure, says, “That part folds back,” and waits patiently for him to get everything reorganized, pulling herself into a chair and watching him work. When he gets the brochure tucked back into its case, he turns back to face her questioningly. Neither of them really belongs in this office. 

“What’s up?” He asks, remembering that he isn’t actually doing anything wrong. He has finished his menial tasks and is allowed in this office so long as he doesn’t snoop through the documents stored in the gray filing cabinet pushed off to the side. Not that he would have any interest in those anyway. 

“Are you busy?” She asks, smile unwavering. He looks around the office and then returns her smile. It feels oddly natural on his face. 

“No. I finished my work a little while ago. Why?” 

Her grin somehow widens and she slides out of her chair, walking around the desk so she stands closer to him. He turns to better see her, slouching slightly to get down to her height, though even like this he can’t quite meet her. 

“Will you have a tea party with me?” She asks, sweetly. Luke’s stomach seems to turn slowly, orbiting around the idea. He takes a deep breath and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. No, he wants to say, sorry, I really can’t. Not today. Go ask Jayden, or maybe your dad, Shirley. Cut it out, he warns himself, starting to his feet. 

“Sure,” he says, instead, mouth a thin line. He lets her lead him upstairs to her room. At the center of it, she has already set up a small table with a teacup and coaster on either end, a plate of granola bars and a bird’s egg blue teapot between them. There are no chairs, so he sits cross legged where she places him and waits for her to get arranged on the opposite end, hands in his lap, fingers tapping uncomfortably. 

This is a silly thing to be afraid of. He bites his lip and smiles as Allie drops a teabag into his cup, listens to her babble on about school and something about a really nice girl who draws well and is teaching her how to do something special with colors. He listens best he can, responds with whatever interest he can muster and helps her pour the lukewarm water from the teapot into each cup, one hand over the tiny lid. 

“This is good,” he says, holding the too-small teacup handle between two fingers, tipping it to his lips and sipping at weak earl grey. She beams at the compliment and passes him a granola bar, which he takes a bite of. 

“I made you something,” she says after a particularly scintillating conversation about a boy named Riley who she suspects has been stealing crayons from the art room, though she isn’t exactly certain and doesn’t want to be a tattletale. She stands and walks over to her bedside table, shuffling through loose paper and then turning with a less crumpled paper in her hands. Beaming, she returns to his side and presses the drawing into his hands, then sits down and takes a loud sip of her tea, watching him as he absorbs the drawing. 

It’s him. He knows this because above the only human figure on the page is ‘Uncle Luke’ written in shaky handwriting in a dark arch that hovers like a speech bubble. A tall, skinny man with a flat expression. Accurate enough, he thinks. Behind him is a small, dreary yellow house, flanked, for some reason, by a large green box. He stares at it for a while, takes another gulp of tea before finally meeting his niece’s stare. 

“That’s really nice, Al. Where am I?” He asks, turning the drawing back to her as if she needs a reminder of what she made. She seems pleased by his comment and flashes her teeth, points at the yellow house. 

“That’s your home,” she says, proudly. Luke looks again at the drawing and thinks that, okay, maybe it’s supposed to be the guesthouse. He’s not going to fault Allie for artistic interpretation or creativity. He nods, pretending that her claim makes perfect sense and sets the drawing carefully to the side, out of the way of potential spillage. 

“I love it. I’ll have to put it up in the guesthouse by my desk so I can look at it all the time. Really, Allie.” Luke smiles softly and she returns the gesture, carefully taking the teapot and pouring him another helping. The water is cold, now, and slightly unpleasant, but he drinks it anyway. 

There are footsteps outside the room and both Luke and Allie turn to see Shirley standing in the doorway, phone to her ear. She stops and takes in the image of him, too tall to be curling over the tiny tea set, across from her young daughter, who is gleaming and clearly pleased with whatever they are talking about. A slow smile pulls around Shirley’s face and she nods at him before continuing on her way, waving at Allie as she goes. 

“Mommy is happy to see you play,” Allie says when her mom is out of sight, and Luke frowns at her. “She thinks something is wrong.” 

Luke nods slowly, taking this in. Uncertain if he really wants to know what his sister says about him when he’s not around. He imagines that thinking something is wrong is kinder than whatever must have been passed around when he would wander off to get high and no one would hear from him for months. And, he supposes, she has probably never said something that was actually untrue or undeserved on his part. 

“That’s okay.” He says after a while, trying for a reassuring tone. “Your mom just worries because she loves me, you know. That’s what she does. But I’m fine.” He finishes his granola bar, as if eating is a sure sign of health and happiness. He isn’t sure he knows how to fool a child, but Allie just grins and drinks her own tea, starting up about something else.

##### Day 142

It’s a bad time of year. Holidays are ripe with resentment and regret, which pushes those already reeking with it that much closer to the edge. 

One of the men says, “I can’t do Christmas, now.” Shakes his head, taps one foot on the ground, then the other, then back to the first one, feet taking turns rapidly jumping on the floor. Luke watches his feet instead of his face, feels his stomach like a glob, thick and gnarly and open, nervousness spilling out like acid. “The family. I mean, they say they’ve forgiven me. And we all love each other. I know that. I know. But it feels… gross. It feels fucking gross sitting there and eating their turkey and stuffing and whatever while seven months ago I was sneaking cash out of my brother’s wallet. I just can’t do it, I can’t pretend that I’ve forgiven myself just because they have. I guess.” 

There are several hums of agreement through the room.

##### 2003

Luke and Theo don’t talk much. Their silence isn’t pointed or distrustful in any way, it’s just that Theo does her own thing and Luke does his. 

Somehow, though, they end up at the same party. He doesn’t realize she is there until he catches her shooting daggers at him from across the room and, in a panic, he ducks into the kitchen. The thing is, this is a college party. So, it’s a party that Theo has every right to be at, and a party that she, a twenty-one-year-old, has every right to drink at. Luke, a high schooler, is breaking not only social rules but the rules of society. And he’s been caught. 

And also, Theo is making out with a girl, which Luke is pretty sure he isn’t supposed to know about. That, or he missed a pretty significant family gathering. Hard to say. 

So, Luke spins into the kitchen and then, finding nowhere to hide, crams himself in the tiny alcove between the refrigerator and some cabinets, arms crossed over his chest and eyes pointed straight ahead. Unsurprisingly, Theo appears before him in a matter of seconds. He still jumps as if surprised, lifts his hands to shield his face as if she is going to punch him. Instead, she frowns. They silently stare at each other for a solid minute before he opens his mouth. 

“I’m not drunk,” he says. “Sorry I came.” 

Theo blinks, and a crease forms between her brows. She grabs his arm, gentler than he expected, and pulls him out of the alcove, drags him through the kitchen and across the house, dodging the gathered partiers. They make it to the back door and she wordlessly pulls them both outside and to his car- their aunt’s car, actually- and pushes him forward. 

“You can drive?” She asks, and he nods, pulling out his keys and holding them up as if this is some sort of evidence. They dangle between them for a moment too long before he turns back to face the car and unlocks it. “Luke,” Theo says, almost silently, before he can slide behind the wheel. He glances up at her, waiting for reprimand. 

“It’s a secret.” Theo says, voice suddenly stern. Luke looks away from her and up to the purple lights of the house. 

“Okay,” He nods, tapping his thumbs on the wheel and then returning his gaze to her. She doesn’t seem upset or worried, just frustrated. Like when they were kids and he would follow behind her, mimicking her like a duckling and asking too many questions. Her shoulders are set stiffly, her hands on her hips. He’s just trying to understand how he’s not in trouble. 

She studies him a bit longer, lips pulled in a stern line, and then her shoulders hitch and she steps right up to the car door, leans in through the window. He can smell her perfume and sweat and he leans back, scrunching his nose. 

“Not even Nell,” Theo says, low and dangerous. Luke pauses, considering this for just a moment, and her hand crosses into the car, grips his shoulder hard enough to hurt. _She’s not trying to hurt me_ , he thinks, and doesn’t grab her wrist to push her away. 

“Don’t worry,” he says instead of _I’m better at keeping secrets than you think_ , because that would probably be more alarming than relaxing and this isn’t about him, not anymore. “I get it,” he adds, catching her eyes and holding them in an effort to express his solemnity. 

She blinks away first and taps the hood of his car, taking a step back and nearly letting him go. He starts the car and is backing up when she shouts. 

“Hold it!” And Luke slams the brakes hard enough to throw his head back. He turns, stares at her wide eyed, and throws up a hand when she walks easily to the passenger side and gets in. He watches her, confused but not entirely displeased that she is joining him. “Since you’re here, I’m taking you to Shipley’s. You’ll hate it.” She laughs, loud and full and it makes him smile, urges him to pull onto the road and follow her directions until she takes him to park outside a tall, windowless house.

##### Day 149

Christmas is a small affair. Too much has bunched up around the end of the year, largely tragedy, and no one in the family is in the mood to go all out on any celebration. Plans are made for Trish and Theo to come over for dinner and Shirley fastidiously puts up a tree when no one is looking. Luke suspects that if not for the kids there wouldn’t be a Christmas at all this year. 

So, December creaks by and Luke wakes up early, some boyhood anticipation getting him up before the sun. He moves lazily, taking a hot shower and then dressing in a sweatshirt and old, worn jeans, flipping through a book while he brushes his teeth. Around seven, he gives in and bundles up to make the walk. 

The kids are already up and downstairs by the time Luke makes his way over to the main house, and they rush him because they aren’t allowed to start without him and please, Luke, come on! And he obliges, nearly falling over himself in his rush to kick off his boots and hang the coat up on the rack, all without getting snow on the floor. 

The kids don’t believe in Santa. That was made clear when winter rolled around and Luke said something absentmindedly about Ole Kris Kringle getting his sleigh ready, only to be sympathetically informed by Allie that Santa is just a story and the presents are from Mommy and Daddy. 

Shirley hands him a cup of coffee and they watch the kids tear through presents, Kevin on standby with a pocket knife and a bag for trash. The Harris’s get Luke a bookshelf, citing the stacks of paperbacks all around his bed and how they figured it was either this or risk finding him with a broken ankle. He didn’t get them anything, and it makes his stomach squirm but no one comments. 

Trish and Theo bring more gifts, which excites Jayden and Allie to no end, strengthening Theo’s claim of the Cool Aunt title. Around dinner time, Steve calls and wishes everyone a merry Christmas, talks for a little bit and then says he has to go because he and Leigh have reservations at some nice restaurant. 

After dinner, Luke steps out onto the porch. It’s been a full day of people, and, even though they are his family, that’s a little too much. He settles onto the cushioned chair and stares out over the yard at uneven piles of snow and a half-formed snowman a little too close to the driveway, one stick arm lost and the other pointed up as if directing someone to look up at the stars. 

The door opens, briefly releasing the sound of Shirley telling the kids to _just smile so I can take a picture_ and Kevin saying something like _Jayden, just put your arm around for sister for ten seconds, please_. Luke tilts his head to see Theo, purple scarf twined around her neck, coat buttoned neck to hips, and hands burrowed away in pockets. 

“Cold?” He asks, scooting over so she can sit by him. She ignores the seat and steps to the rail, leaning her hip against it and looking back towards him, into the house through the window. 

Luke side eyes his sister and then uncertainly lights a cigarette, holding it between his lips while he replaces the lighter in his pocket, then removing it to blowing out smoke. Theo doesn’t acknowledge it. She just sips her wine and stares out at the road. 

“So,” Luke says, skin prickling in the silence, rolling the cigarette between his fingers before taking another puff. She finally looks his way, glancing only once at the cigarette and then seemingly ignoring it. He can never tell if Theo actually cares or not. “Dad told me something about Mom I thought… you’d like.” He sniffs, turns his eyes back to the road, the one streetlamp out by the house, the path Kevin jogs in the morning. 

“Oh, boy,” She sighs. Her hand tilts the wine glass to her lips and she raises her brows at him, somehow sarcastic and hopeful at the same time. Luke isn’t stupid, knows that she wants any scraps of her mother she can get, even after all this time. They have never stopped missing her. Neither has he, despite the pieces of the puzzle that are now his alone. 

“Well, it came up that you’re gay,” he starts, snorting at the oddness of the statement, hoping that it doesn’t make her mad that they were talking about her, about Trish. “I was saying about how Nellie laughed when she told me, you know, about the bridesmaid. Okay?” He says, suddenly uncertain, feeling like he’s ignorantly trotting through a forest floor of traps, setting off bombs. She seems unperturbed, but he doesn’t think that ultimately means much. Unless there’s a kid involved, Theo’s general state is either apathy or anger. He waits a moment longer to see if she wants to correct him or ask any questions, but she just drinks from her glass and listens, tapping her nail on the rail. 

“Okay,” she says, elongating the word, encouraging him to go on. 

“And he said that Mom knew. Like way back when we were kids. She just knew.” He doesn’t look at her until the silence becomes too much, takes another drag of his cigarette and glances over to see what she’s doing, if he was right in telling her at all or if was something she didn’t want to think about, something she didn’t need acknowledged. 

He almost swallows the cigarette, seeing the way her face has shattered, like a dismantled brick wall, pieces crumbling to the surrounding floor, leaving her interior exposed and shocked with the new, fresh air. Suddenly vulnerable. Luke quickly looks at his feet, trying to allow her some semblance of privacy, to let her have this personal moment. He finishes his smoke, carefully puts it out and drops the butt into the bushes. He clears his throat and finally turns to face her, trying to paste on an impassive look. It was just a story, no reason for him to make something of it unless she wants to. 

Before he can fully turn to her, he finds her standing beside him, arms wrapped around herself, eyes sharp. He takes an involuntary step away, bumps his back on the porch rail. Theo rolls her eyes at him, but puts effort into softening her face. She blows air through her nose and takes a step closer, lightly kicking his foot with the toes of her boot and saying, “Alright. Thanks for telling me.” 

He nods once, forcing himself to stare directly into her eyes for a moment, and then she turns on her heel and is walking back into the house, calling out for Jayden and Allie to say goodbye to their aunt.

##### Day 150

Kevin helps Luke carry the bookshelf from the main house to the guesthouse, and then offers to help assemble it. Luke almost declines but then remembers that he doesn’t really know what he is doing. 

They open the box, kicking it to the far side of the room, and then Kevin sits with the directions for a few minutes, telling Luke how to organize the few parts, watching while he slides a board here and there, sets a bag of screws to the side. Then, when Kevin finishes his studying, they bust out the tools. 

They don’t work quietly. As long as Luke has known Kevin, the man has never been a fan of silence, and is happy to fill it with amusing stories and anecdotes. Luke doesn’t mind; Kevin is an interesting person and is nice to listen to, doesn’t push Luke to add his own tales or weigh in. He is comfortable with Luke’s silence, as long as he is allowed to ramble. And he is a good talker, never seems to run out of things to say, never allows his monologue to taper into awkward silence. 

It’s when Kevin is talking about what he saw on the news this morning that Luke hears the whirring. A stutter-start, three ticks and then the sound of a rough pull, then the spinning quickens and builds until it is working in a steady rhythm. Luke glances over at Kevin, who keeps talking, seemingly unaware of the sound. Maybe that means the sound has always been here, a low hum that Kevin and Shirley and Theo just grew accustomed to, something present but barely noticed and never really acknowledged. That’s better than the alternative; that the noise belongs to Luke alone. 

Luke waits for Kevin to pause for breath to interrupt, raising his thumb and gesturing to just behind his shoulder, where the headboard is resting against the wall. 

“Hey, do you hear that?” Luke asks, quirking his lips, as if this is his first time noticing the noise. Kevin frowns and looks where Luke’s pointing. They are both quiet for a few moments, Kevin listening hard to find what is so obvious to Luke, that constant churn just behind his bed, the click, click, click that tags along with his pulse. Kevin makes a face. 

“No, what does it sound like?” There’s dread there, like Luke is about to direct him to something damaged and costly. A leaking pipe or a small rodent invasion. The sound of tiny little teeth working through important structures. 

“It stopped,” Luke says with a shrug, turning back to his work. Kevin lingers on him for a moment longer and then reaches for his screwdriver.

##### Day 174

They’re having a normal conversation until Steve asks, “Well, what about your writing?” It’s out of the blue and throws Luke off, leaves him spinning his wheels for a moment, trying to understand what, exactly, his writing is before he finally latches on. By then the silence is burning a hole in his throat and it’s harder to pick up the conversation. 

“Uh, what? My what?” He says just to buy time. He doesn’t want to talk to his published author brother about his own lousy short stories, would never have let Steve know that they exist if it had been up to him. Of course, the choice went to someone else. 

“When you brought your friend over for dinner?” 

“Jo,” Luke interjects, because why not. Jo had meant something to him, regardless of how things ended, and he can’t help but want her to be known. 

“Jo, yeah,” Steve hurriedly corrects. “She mentioned that you write.” 

Luke thinks he hears a hint of displeasure in his brother’s voice, the emphasis on _she mentioned_ instead of _you write_. Jealousy. An amused smile quirks across Luke’s face, there and gone in an instant. Odd to imagine Steve upset that Luke confided in someone else. Odd that Steve would imagine Luke confiding in him after all this time, after everything that’s happened. 

Luke needs to learn forgiveness. Or his brother consequences. Or both. 

“I messed around with it a little,” Luke says with a handwave. It’s true, he hadn’t been good at putting the words together, at smoothing them out. Everything just seemed too clunky once he finally got it down onto paper, out of his jumbled head. Lines and Lines of words reading as disconnected and either vague or dense. Senseless, meaningless. It always made more sense for him to draw. Simpler to make something up in his head and make the image plain in that form, not to describe it. Make it real to the eyes, at least. “Didn’t really catch, you know?” 

“Hmm. That’s not what Jo said. She thought you were pretty good.” Steve sounds amused himself now. Luke doesn’t particularly like when it’s turned on him. 

Jo had been special, though. She had teased and jabbed at him but always knew when to stop and take things seriously, to move a little slower and really absorb what was going on. Sharing with her had been as simple as breathing. In and out, take and give. Sitting by the open window, passing a cigarette back and forth, his regrets and her dread, whispered and forgiven. One day after a meeting she had followed him back to his room and right before lights out he shoved the papers into her hand, said _don’t laugh_ and she had immediately snickered anyway and said _sure thing, whatever_ , but had taken the gift for what it was, held the folded pages like they meant something.

And the next day, _this is seriously good, asshole_. 

He hopes she isn’t dead, hopes one day she will emerge, show up at his door with that shit-eating grin and a shrug on her shoulders, eyes crinkling with the kind of guilt that excuses apologies. He wants the chance to tell her he isn’t angry, that he understands and that she’s going to be alright. 

“She was exaggerating,” Luke persists. “I’m shit. She just wanted to say something nice because—” and that’s where he stops because nothing good will come from saying that Steve had made her uncomfortable, the whole house had freaked her out and she had only been there for Luke, hadn’t wanted to sit at the table for someone else’s family dinner while they were looked down on, while she was seen as someone to be ashamed of, someone to watch and look out for. 

“Yeah,” Steve says softly, hearing the unspoken accusation. “Well, I’d like to read it anyway. If you’re okay with that.” 

Air slowly presses out from between Luke’s teeth and he opens his mouth to say _no, that would be a bad idea_ , but stops himself short, mouth hanging stupidly open. 

“Maybe,” He says, voice tense. “Maybe.”

##### Days 175-182

Luke gets up, he cleans the house, he does what he can to help around the funeral home, he goes on walks, reads, and tries to write, tries to come up with words he isn’t ashamed of, isn’t afraid for his brother to read.

##### Day 183

Allie is at school for three hours before she vomits on a coloring book and, while waiting for someone to pick her up, an office lady’s jeans. Kevin gets the call and rushes to the office to tell Shirley, and they are just starting to figure out which one of them is going to go get her when Luke decides to volunteer. Shirley furrows her brow, starts to say something but stops herself when she catches the grateful smile Kevin shoots at Luke. And just like that, Luke gets the car keys. 

He’s picked the kids up from school before and the office workers recognize him, hand Allie over, letting her hold onto the trashcan she is hunched over, and send them away with a _feel better, sweetie and a hope to see you soon, kiddo_. 

Luke holds the trashcan while Allie buckles her seatbelt, her green backpack slung over his shoulder, too-small for his body and slightly demeaning. 

“You got it?” He asks, sliding the trashcan onto the floor between her feet. She swallows thickly and nods, then slouches forward with her arms wrapped around her stomach. He grimaces sympathetically and carefully shuts the door before rushing to the front. He turns the radio on, letting it hum quietly, and avoids bumpy spots in the road, flickering his eyes to her in the rearview mirror and feeling very out of place in this paternal role. 

When they get to the house, he takes her bag and the trashcan in one arm and her tiny hand in the other, walking at her pace to the main house. He leaves the trashcan in the entryway by the shoes and hoists her onto the kitchen counter, stands so they are looking each other in the eye. Her face is a sickly color and clammy, her eyes looking back at him drowsily. This close, he can smell the remains of vomit. Luke leans over and plucks a can of 7up out of the fridge, cracking the can open and holding it out to Allie. 

“Swish this around in your mouth and then spit,” he instructs, not really sure if that’s good advice but saying it confidently enough. She eyes the can and then does as she’s told, taking a small sip and whooshing is around for a few seconds, pulling a face, and then spitting it into the sink beside her. “Good. I’m gonna run upstairs and get you some pajamas. If you need to puke, do it in the sink.” 

“Okay,” she hums, and he hesitates. 

“Are you going to fall off the counter if I leave you here?” He looks over his shoulder to make sure neither of her parents are lurking near enough to hear. When he looks back at Allie, she is grinning tiredly. 

“No,” she giggles, and Luke chuckles back nervously. 

“Promise?” He holds up his right hand, pinky sticking up. Her hand is much smaller than his when she meets him, nodding soberly, and he is struck for a moment by the direct comparison. He pushes her a little further back on the counter and then takes off up the stairs. 

He opens a few drawers in Allie’s bedroom before he finds what he’s looking for and nearly trips down the stairs in his rush to get back to her. When he rounds the corner, her head is bobbing slightly but she is leaning back against the wall, not looking to be at risk of falling anywhere but into the sink. 

Luke slides her off the counter and walks her to the bathroom, pressing the pajamas into her hands and then waiting outside the door while she changes, unsure if this is paranoid behavior or justified. When she emerges, Allie is wobbling on her feet and he gives in, scooping her into his arms and carrying her to the living room. 

He sets her up on the couch in front of the television, bundled in a light blanket and a cup of 7up with a bendy straw in her hand. He sits beside her with a salad bowl in his lap in case she gets sick again, staring absently at the cartoons she snoozes through until they become too much and he cracks open a book. 

Eventually, Shirley emerges with a thermometer. She frowns at the results and retrieves a wet washcloth that she presses to Allie’s forehead, dabs around her neck. When Shirley goes back to work, she hands the cloth over to Luke, who tries to imitate her motions but does so awkwardly enough that Allie laughs at him sickly and pukes. He is only just quick enough getting the salad bowl under her chin, rubbing a hand over her shoulders as she wretches and doing his best to ignore the sick new weight of the bowl and the sharp odor. 

They go on like this for a while, sleeping and watching cartoons, Luke reading or comforting his niece, handing over the cloth when either Shirley or Kevin check in. After she vomits, Luke goes to empty the bowl and refresh the cloth, and then he wipes her mouth and hands, gives her water to clear her teeth. Eventually, Allie seems to feel better. She becomes more attentive and smiles earnestly at the television, stops throwing up and sips steadily at her drink. 

At around four in the afternoon, Allie looks over at Luke, who is stiff and achy from sitting on the couch all day, and says, “Can we draw?” 

Luke puts his book down and frowns at the scene before them. Allie is wrapped and double wrapped in her blanket, drink tucked precariously between her and the arm of the sofa. He is beside her, using a ruined salad bowl to support his arms while he reads, feet kicked up on the coffee table while some cartoon drones on the television. He doesn’t really know where drawing fits in. 

“Are you done getting sick?” he asks, knowing full well the answer doesn’t make a difference but feeling like he should make the effort in case. If the kid is feeling up to actively doing something, he takes it as a good sign of improvement. 

“Yeah,” she answers without hesitation, flashing a toothy grin, and wins him over. 

Luke gets up with a groan and, with a little instruction, collects the girl’s art supplies and a hardback cookbook from the kitchen, then organizes everything around her on the couch. He puts the book on her lap as a table for the paper, then sets the crayons and pencils between them on the cushion, tucking the blanket under her leg and out of the way. He puts his book aside and settles in to watch her draw, bowl at the ready in case Allie tries to upchuck all over the art. 

Allie pushes a few papers back at him and says, “You too,” with a sense of finality. 

He starts to hand the paper back to her but stops himself, shifts so he can use his right thigh as a hardback. Because why not? He hasn’t drawn in a while. Nothing more complex than scribbles in the margins of books or between lines of notes. What harm could come from it? 

Allie uses the orange crayon to draw a cat with six legs and then three fish with kissy lips before she falls back asleep, chin tucked in and snoring lightly. Luke chooses a blue crayon and works out a thick waxy sketch of a ribbon twining around and through invisible hoops, and then draws Allie sleeping, her dark hair tied up away from her face.

##### Day 184

After his morning walk, Luke ducks into a fabric store. His shirt sticks to him and he feels wet and gross. Moving quickly, he sweeps to the back of the store where there are buckets of buttons, divided into trays with rows of varying sizes. He hunts around until finally finding a large, flat dark-blue button. The woman at the register looks at him funny for only buying one, and he decides she can live with the mystery, doesn’t really need to know that this is his sad excuse for a six-month chip. He thanks her and hurries out, hand resting over the button in his pocket.

##### Day 188

“What would you like to do for your birthday?” Shirley asks, and the question makes Luke’s head rattle. He’d forgotten. 

They are sitting on either side of her desk; Shirley is ducking over a manila folder, chewing on the end of her pen and frowning at whatever bad news she’s scanning. Luke is leaning back with a notebook on his knee, sketching out a long, pale hand with a cubic zirconia ring. Her question breaks the comfortable silence and knocks him off kilter. 

“Nothing,” he answers, and it’s true. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the day, doesn’t want to pretend to enjoy himself. 

“We should do something, Luke. You can’t just never celebrate your birthday again.” Shirley’s tone is easy but her eyes are harder, say that she, too, would be happy to just go on forever never celebrating anything at all. Her mouth is set grimly and with finality. _We pretend, we fake it until we don’t have to_. Luke knows the drill, just never really felt part of it. He’d never been one for pretending, not since his honesty was so often put into question. 

“Just this time.” He grumbles, closing his notebook and tucking the pencil away in its spirals. He pushes his chair back and rises, stretching up until his lower back cracks pleasantly. Shirley grimaces. He settles back on his feet and shoves his hands into his pockets, staring out the window. “I’m not ready, yet. Okay?” 

Shirley taps her pencil on the desk and stares up at him, waits for him to meet her gaze. Luke doesn’t, can’t make himself. She gives in, sighing and letting the pencil drop out of her grip. 

“Alright. Sorry,” She says. Her hand slides forward on the desk like she’s reaching for him and he wonders if she would have leaned over and grabbed his arm if he was still sitting, if she would have spoken quietly, kindly.

##### Day 191

It’s been four months and Luke lies back and listens to the slow churn behind his headboard, massages his chest with cautious fingers, and tries to understand why he misses his sister dearly but doesn’t sense her absence, why there is no void where she used to be.

The answer is probably simple. The connection between twins. He feels her now, maybe more than before. No drugs to block it all out, no sudden and harsh grief or ghosts lurking around every corner. It’s been 101 days since his 90-day mark, since Nell died. And she’s not really gone. So, the connection is still there, his soul and hers, linked by a dark cord.

##### Day 196

The Delacroix family is ten minutes early for their appointment, so Luke smiles and sets them up in Shirley’s office and asks if he can get them anything while they wait and hopefully duck out of the room and far away from Mr. Hal Delacroix. 

He has a strong jaw and serious eyes that lock onto Luke the moment he answers the door. Like he knows him, like he’s trying to remember what Luke’s name is and it’s just on the tip of his tongue and _where have we met?_ Luke doesn’t particularly want to know who the man thinks he is for fear that they have actually met under not-so-charming circumstances and it’s going to get out that Shirley has a wily drug addict brother working in her already odd business. 

So, Luke focuses on Mrs. Lorna Delacroix, whose shiny blonde hair is twisted into a French braid. She keeps looping it through her fingers, tugging the ends closer to her mouth like she’s going to chew on them. Her eyes flicker to his, blinking like she just realized she was being addressed, and she licks her lips nervously. 

“Pardon?” She asks, looking between Luke and Hal, eyes the color of steel. 

“Water, babe?” Hal says, voice gentler than Luke expected. He moves closer to his wife, bumping the back of her hand with his until she latches onto him, knotting their fingers together and pressing her lips into an apologetic smile. 

“Yes, please.” 

Luke nods and glances at Hal, who shakes his head, brows pressed together as he stares hard into Luke’s eyes, slowly poking through the possibilities. Work? Gym? Buying smack in the alley behind the bar? 

Luke hurries from the office and dips into the kitchen, grabbing two bottles of water and putting them on the counter. He crosses his arms and leans back, waiting until he hears Shirley padding across the hall in the direction of her office to grab them up and follow. 

He hesitates outside the door. Dully, he can hear their voices; Shirley, gentle and polite, then Lorna, slightly stuttered, and then Hal. Smooth, deep. Luke hears him ask, “I’m sorry, but that man who was in here, what’s his name?” 

And Shirley provides a reluctant “Luke?”

Before any more can be said, Luke knocks and pushes into the room, handing out the waters and then stationing himself in the corner chair by the books. Shirley tuns and frowns at him, confused, but then quickly offers the Delacroix’s a smile and goes on with their meeting. He doesn’t think he can explain to her the hope that his presence will keep any further questions about his identity quiet and the whole line of thought will be completely abandoned. 

Eventually, Luke slides out his notebook and starts scribbling. Little trees nestled close along a road, a gate with lion heads on either side, a mad gardener, gnashing his teeth and pruning a bush. 

Hal’s uncle died from pneumonia. Got sick chopping wood, didn’t bother to get it checked out. Just a cold, just a cold. And then he was in the hospital for a little bit before finally letting go. Luke doesn’t know much about pneumonia, but he sketches out an older man, sitting up in bed, eyes baggy and hands pressed to his chest while he hacks up globs of phlegm. Poor Uncle Delacroix. Luke stares down at the imagined man while his family talks about burying him and avoids the eyes of his nephew as they flicker back at him over and over. 

All of the staring starts to draw in Lorna and Shirley’s attention. Lorna’s eyes are confused, Shirley’s slightly accusatory. Luke suspects she is thinking along the same lines as him, imagining that Hal caught Luke shooting up and is going to spread word around until no one really wants to go around the Harris place just in case the crazy brother is around. 

Luke’s half imagining packing up his bags when Shirley says something with a tone of finality and all three of them rise to their feet. Luke tucks away his notebook and stands as well, putting on a smile and opening the door while hands are shaking. 

Lorna smiles at him as she walks by and he nods in return, then faces Hal. The other man pauses in the doorway and stares down at Luke, his expression different now. He reaches a hand out towards Luke, who registers that Hal is trying to shake his hand and lets him, returning his grip and focusing his eyes past the man’s face, on his ear. 

With a choking noise, Hal’s hand flies to his own throat, trim nails digging in until the flesh is bleached white. His eyes are wide and terrified and beaming straight down into Luke, who is startled into meeting them. Hal makes a pained noise and starts coughing, the hand not on his throat tightening around Luke’s fingers, clasping them desperately as Luke anxiously tries to pull away. 

To his left, Shirley calls out in shock and then moves to his side, taking hold of Hal’s sleeve but not pulling on it, just holding him and asking very calmly, “Mr. Delacroix? What’s happening, Mr. Delacroix? Look at me.” 

_I killed him_ , Luke thinks absurdly, grabbing at the hand digging into the man’s neck and trying to pry at the fingers, careful not the jostle his throat and he works at it. The man makes a groaning noise and stumbles in closer. Luke’s back thumps against the door, which opens wider behind him and springs both of them back a few feet until Hal is pressed into Luke, knees to knees, their hands locked between them and Hal’s hot breath on Luke’s cheek. 

“Hey!” Kevin is calling from somewhere, and there’s the sound of feet and then Shirley yells something that Luke doesn’t understand because Hal is croaking in his ear, little choking noises from deep in his chest, and Luke can’t tell which of their hearts is pounding against his chest, which of them is trembling. 

Luke opens his mouth to cry out, but then the weight is released off of him and he scrambles away from the door, searching the room with wild eyes. 

A few feet away, Lorna has both of her husband’s hands in her own and is pulling him down to her height, whispering something in his ear. Kevin has one hand fisted in Hal’s jacket, face hidden but shoulders tense, protective, his body between the couple and Luke. After a moment, Hal whispers something back and Lorna’s eyes snap to Luke, who shrivels under her gaze. 

Something dark moves in the corner of his vision and he turns to see Shirley, mouth agape, holding her hands out to him. 

“What the fuck?” Her voice is low, and then, louder, “Are you alright?” 

He nods and then looks up at Hal. The man has stopped coughing and is staring at Luke, who feels compelled to apologize. Shirley follows his gaze. 

“Is _he_ alright?” Her voice is less sympathetic now, high with alarm. Lorna pulls her attention away from Luke and stares at Shirley instead, the shift slightly delayed, like she’s under a fog. 

“Yes. Yes, I’m so sorry. I think it was a panic attack. I’m so sorry.” Her tone is sincere, and she slowly starts moving her husband towards the door, eyes locked with Shirley’s. Kevin releases his jacket to walk around to the door and Luke catches his expression, confused and agitated. 

Shirley shakes her head, dazed, watching them back towards the door. “Uh, that’s alright. Do you want us to call someone?” She glances back at Luke, down at the arms he has wrapped around himself, and bites her lip. 

“No, I’m just going to take him home. But thank you.” 

“Luke!” Hal calls, and the room tenses. Hal is gripping his wife’s shoulder with one hand and the doorframe with the other. His eyes are wet, irises bright behind blotchy red. Luke returns his gaze and feels oddly tuned in, wired. He shakes his head and the man cries out, “In delay there lies no plenty!” 

His wife hushes him and pushes him out the door, Shirley following close behind. Kevin stands and watches them until the car backs out of the driveway and Shirley returns, frowning and slightly haggard. Luke falls into a chair. 

“Everyone’s getting this bug,” Kevin drawls, and Luke raises his hand to his throat and wonders.

##### Day 198

February twelfth starts with Luke creaking out of bed, pulling himself up and then over so his legs hang over the side. For a long while he stays like that, staring at his bare feet and wandering away, his mind floating up, up, up until it bounces off the ceiling and sends him bopping around the room, looking for something long gone and irretrievable. 

He groans. The sound is sullen, grating. It ends and makes the silence heavier. Breathing slowly out, Luke pushes to his feet, wobbling slightly, and then goes to shower. 

It’s just a day, he knows. The only reason it is at all special is because it has been assigned importance, but to the rest of the world it is just an ordinary day and he can make it insignificant. There isn’t actually any power in sharing a birthday and then having it alone and knowing that it will be only his for the rest of his life. 

And, in truth, his last birthday hadn’t been special either. Luke had been squatting in an alley trying to find a vein, no phone to call home with and nothing to say besides. Sure, this is the first birthday he has been clean for in years and maybe he should be celebrating that, but it’s also the first birthday without Nell. The first birthday that is his alone. And he doesn’t really want it. 

He takes his time getting up and around, then walks over to the main house in worn jeans and a sweatshirt. Baggy, loose. He worries for a moment that he looks too ragged, that he’s going to catch his sister’s eyes and see them as they had been a year ago, leveling him with disapproval and disgust. 

But when he makes it over to the main house, Shirley barely takes a second glance before she sweeps him out of the entryway. 

“I know you don’t want to celebrate this year,” Shirley whispers, as if a hushed tone will prevent the rest of the household from realizing the significance of the date. She guides him into the kitchen and pushes him to sit, wringing her hands nervously as she walks around the counter. Stopping with her back to him, Shirley opens a high cupboard, pushing something aside before turning around, cupcake in hand. Luke watches as she places it carefully on the counter and slides it closer to him. “No candles, so it doesn’t really count.” She says with a shrug. But her face is pinched, nervous. Like she half expects him to smack it away and go into a rage. 

Instead, Luke turns it left and right like he’s putting in a locker combination. He inspects it carefully. Chocolate with a pile of blue frosting, the paper cup simple white and crinkled. 

“That’s really nice,” He says, still looking down at the cupcake. “Thanks Shirl.”

She hums, taps her fingers on the counter and then walks around to sit with him, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” She says, and he shakes his head because this is a gift not an attack and he isn’t upset with her at all, not for doing a nice thing for him. Of course not, of course not. 

 

~*~

 

Luke excuses himself, holding up his cellphone for Shirl to see, and then makes his way to the porch where he plants himself in the big chair and waits. It’s still not warm enough for this to be comfortable, but Luke clears the dusting of snow off the seat and listens to water drip off the roof, holding his phone loosely in a stiff hand. 

After a few trembling minutes, the tinny ring of his phone pops him out of his reverie and he answers. “Hey,” he says, eyes on the stars above. There is a certainty in stars, even in their mystery, an absolute promise that there will be something there, be it alive or long dead, to look at. Stories to find above. 

“Hi, Luke.” There is a thickness in Steve’s voice, one built of pleasure instead of pain. Eagerness, Luke thinks, and sits up straighter. 

“What’re you up to?” Luke asks, stilling his legs. Under the moon, the grass looks bolder and the pale sides of the house seem to glow. On the other end of the call, Steve shifts in his seat and the line crackles. Luke suspects Steve might have risen to his feet, that he is pacing. 

“Happy birthday,” Steve says instead of answering his question, and Luke sighs. Apparently, no one in his family got the message that he didn’t want this birthday celebrated, didn’t want the reminder. 

Still, he mumbles, “Thanks,” swiping a hand over his face, and repeats his question. “What’re you doing?” 

Steve chuffs. It’s a pleasant sound and familiar in a way that is less constant and more nostalgic. Years ago, Steve calling from college to check in, to make sure that his baby brother wasn’t doing anything too stupid and that he was doing well in school. And Luke would say something amusing- maybe he used to be funny, maybe he used to be someone you laughed with- and Steve would just release his laughter in one soft breath. Luke used to think it was disapproving but now he wonders. 

“Trying to write. Fiction.” He says it with conviction, ready to defend himself, to explain and reexplain and promise. 

“Anything good?”

##### Day 199

Luke goes to NA and sits at the far end of the table. Listens with his eyes closed, hands palm-down on the table. He thinks about what victory means. What it is supposed to mean and if it means anything at all.

##### Day 205

The dead dog is an unpleasant and unwelcome surprise. Luke almost treads over it, mind wandering as he walks, barely thinking of where he is as the sidewalk narrows into grass and dirt. When he finds it, it is flopped unceremoniously on its side just a few feet from the road it was struck on, bits of its insides pooled to the outside, purple and wrinkly. The side facing up is smashed in, apparently the point of impact. Its eye is bulging, open and sticky-looking, and its tongue hangs thickly out the side of its mouth. Bits of it have been picked away but the body is mostly intact. Beyond that, it is a she with dark fur that goes gray and white around her muzzle and belly. Her ears are cropped into points and her nose comes to a long curve. Small feet and broad shoulders. Luke doesn’t know much about dogs, but he figures her to be a mutt. Probably pretty before she was busted open, probably friendly and tail wags and loud. 

But now she’s dead, so it hardly seems to matter. 

The dog has a blue collar with a shiny gold tag on the end, so someone cares. Luke sighs. It’s too early in the morning for this. He takes a step closer and reluctantly kneels beside her, careful not to step on anything that used to be functional.

He clears his throat and extends his hand towards the collar and then stops. There’s an image in his head from horror movies; a trembling hand pressing down on death, millions of bugs rushing out and the body gradually deflating as it is vacated. There’s a story Shirley only told once about a litter of kittens and one large bug skittering out of one, crawling right across her hand. It’s not an experience he would like the share. 

Carefully, Luke crosses the distance and very, very lightly hooks his finger around the collar, twisting it around so he can read the little pendant. DANCER. A dog named Dancer. 

Way back, they used to have a dog. The only pet Luke has ever had other than, apparently, some dead kittens. He had been about ten and Aunt Janet showed up one day from work and had them all follow her out to the car. She had looked so happy, big eyes crinkled with excitement and the anticipation of what she was certain would be some very happy kids. Before they even had a chance to gather around, a large red head had popped up, panting and wiggling around happily, dark eyes taking them all in. They’d named him Moby. 

On the other side of the tag there is an engraved phone number so small that Luke ends up unclasping the collar to get close enough to read it. It can’t be any later than 6 AM, so Luke doesn’t figure he’ll have to do more than leave a quick message, but after a few rings a croaky male voice answers. 

“Hello?” It says, sounding perturbed and a little confused. Luke can relate. He scoots away from Dancer but keeps an eye on her, as if something is going to come along and take her away right under his nose. 

“Hi. Um, do you have a dog named Dancer?” He asks, scratching the back of his neck and rising back to his feet. He is painfully aware of cars slowing as they pass, taking in the scraggly man crouching beside what is apparently roadkill. God forbid he is identified as Shirley’s brother or there are going to be some fucked rumors about the creep in the guesthouse. 

“Oh, yeah,” the man says, voice picking up. This is a call he’s been waiting for, then. Hoping for. Maybe he has posted missing signs on corkboards around town, sending word out on social media and all that, looking for his beloved pet. Great, great. “Where’d you find her?” 

“Sorry, man. She’s out by, uh,” he looks up, realized he isn’t really sure what street he’s on, says, “you know that hardware store? Cranston’s? She must have been hit by a car and she, uh, she died. She’s here, though.” And then he snaps his mouth shut before he can start rambling and trying to make this somehow okay when it isn’t. The last thing he wants to do is invite blubbering or anger of any kind. 

“Shit,” the man says, taking his mouth away from the phone so his voice is far off and muted. Luke shifts his weight to the other foot, ducks his face low as another car passes by. “Right, I’ll be there in a minute.” He says it quickly and then hangs up. Luke pulls his cell away from his face and frowns at its screen, uncertain if that means he’s supposed to keep vigil on the curb until this guy comes around and scoops up his dead dog, and why exactly the guy would want him to do that in the first place. 

But he waits. He drops down again so he is sitting with his feet tucked in, close enough to the dog to be associated with it but not yet close enough to touch it or any of its new extensions. 

It only takes the man about ten minutes to get there, and his white pickup pulls right up into the grass. He drops out from the passenger side and frowns down at Dancer, mouth set in a hard line. His dark hair falls in thick curls around his ears and he has bulky muscle and dirty boots. A little shorter than the average male and not wearing enough layers for the biting weather. Handsome, unkempt. Luke rises to greet him, trying his best to look at the man and not at the dog or awkwardly away into the distance. 

“Drew,” the man says, extending a hand to Luke, who takes it and gives it a meek shake. His voice is still rusted and low, like someone who either doesn’t talk much at all or spends a lot of time yelling. 

“Luke,” he answers, quirking his mouth into an uncomfortable grin and letting his hand drop back to his side. Drew nods and turns to Dancer with a sigh.

“This is gonna kill my brother,” he murmurs. Luke nods, feeling out of place. He doesn’t know Drew or his brother, doesn’t even know the fucking dog. It’s all very sad and Luke definitely doesn’t belong, doesn’t feel like he has any right to witness anyone else’s grieving when he can barely come to terms with his own. 

“Sorry,” Luke says, for lack of anything better. Drew passes him a quick, soft smile and then crouches, hands over his knees, by the dog. After a moment he reaches out, scratching her behind the ears. Luke looks away and towards the road, holding his arms behind his back. 

“Alright,” Drew breathes, and then tilts his head to look up at Luke, who is still avoiding line of sight. “Hey, I know this is asking a lot, but could you help me get her in the truck?” 

Luke swallows and slowly turns back to look at Drew, who’s face is smooth and impassive, but who’s shoulders send out waves of sadness, and he finds himself nodding. Stepping closer and rolling up his sleeves like he’s going to just scoop Dancer into his arms, hanging guts and all, and tote her over to the truck and send this stranger off with a wave. 

_Since when am I a pleaser he wonders, since when do I make amends to strangers?_

Drew stands up and returns to his truck, reaching behind the seat and shuffling things around until he comes back with a large, white trash bag. He holds both ends of the opening and whips the bag until it is fully open and ballooned out and then passes it over to Luke, who takes it regretfully and stares wide-eyed. Drew stares at him for a second, opens his mouth as if prepared to explain himself, but seemingly decides explanation isn’t required and lowers himself back to the dog. 

Luke stares at the sky and exhales slowly through his teeth while Drew collects Dancer into his arms, hooking one elbow out to support the majority of her body and using the other to carefully shovel up her spilled guts. He gestures at Luke to get closer and he does, shuffling on his feet and then crouching and holding the bag out at an arms distance, watching as Drew gingerly brings Dancer over the bag and lowers her in. 

The bottom of the bag is weighed down and Luke carefully doesn’t think about the heaviness in his arms, the dark pooling within the crackling plastic. He doesn’t understand why they’re putting her in a bag, doesn’t know why they can’t just lay her down in the bed of the truck or something, doesn’t know why he has to be around to witness and assist with this whole disaster. 

When she’s all in they both stand, Luke holding the bag in one hand and helping himself up with the other. Drew takes the bag from Luke at looks into it. Horribly, Luke catches the other man’s lip tremble before he regains composure and, stomach clenching, quickly looks away. 

“Sorry, babe,” Drew sighs, before tightening the top of the bag. Now Luke sees that his hands are stained with old, brown blood, flecks of something in the curve between several fingers. Drew doesn’t move to wipe them off, maybe isn’t fully aware of the mess. 

Luke follows him around to the passenger side of the truck, reaching around Drew to open the door for him and then clearing out so the man can put his dog on the seat without him ogling. Instead, he watches for traffic, both hands shoved into his pockets now and curled into fists, feeling grimy even though they didn’t come into contact with more than a collar and a garbage bag. 

“Okay, that’ll do it.” Drew walks up beside Luke, frowning down at his hands and taking in the ick. Probably trying to work out how he’s going to drive home now. God forbid he asks Luke, who, based on how things are going, would more than likely end up agreeing to take the guy wherever he wanted for zero compensation. 

“You alright?” Luke asks, then rolls his lips in to keep his mouth shut and silent. Drew makes a noise and smiles tightly, shrugging. 

“Sure. My brother will be more upset than me. It’s more his dog than mine,” He glances back towards the truck and Luke does the same, half expecting the little mutt to be poking it’s bludgeoned head out the window, panting excitedly. Instead, there is just a white truck and a now-empty road. “I’m dreading telling him.” 

“Sorry,” Luke says again, unsure what else there is to say. Unsure why he’s saying anything at all. Drew shrugs and gets ready to clap a hand on Luke’s back but stops himself, holding his mess of a hand aloft so they can both stare at it. Then he lets it drop with a snort and shrugs again. 

“Thanks for all your help. And for calling. That was really nice of you.” And now it’s Luke’s turn to shrug and smile weakly. “I’d shake your hand, but… thanks again,” Drew says, and this time his smile is sincerer, more amused, and Luke does all he can to return it. 

Drew ambles back to his truck and slowly pulls back onto the road while Luke watches, waving out the window before taking off the way he came. It’s midday now and Luke doesn’t want to go home, doesn’t want to really do anything, so he keeps walking.

##### Days 206-213

For a week, Luke draws black dogs. One hand scraping pencil across notebook paper and the other cupping his jaw, only half focused on what he is creating. Possessed, almost. Forging something gruesome with lackadaisical absorption, hooded eyes and steady breath. At first, he doesn’t fully realize what he is sketching until his attention is drawn away and later, when he returns to his notebook, there she is. Dancer, one eye rolled up like a pig waiting for slaughter, legs all akimbo. She is sprawled to the left of his to-do list, tongue rolling out like an arrow pointing at Replace Lightbulb in Hallway! 

Just a one-time incident, surely. An uncomfortable image locked in his mind, pushing out. It’ll be gone soon and he’ll be back to other scribbles, dark smudges and his family and a house with no roof. Anything but the dog. 

But then it continues. Dozens of little Dancers; long, dark fur rough as wire and thick with blood, with human eyes, green then blue, all staring. Page after page he draws her, gradually with more care, with more intention. He recreates her on paper and then goes on to the next one, starting at her dark muzzle and stretching out to a round head, long neck and shattered ribs. Sometimes she spills open, spools of thick intestine falling from fur onto blank white, thick and glistening when he presses hard, enough to leave indentations on the next page. A hint of what is to come over a fresh-furred Dancer, a mar of ghostly future. 

It becomes as easy as tapping his foot, cracking his knuckles. In moments of silence, Luke flips open his notebook and draws roadkill Dancer, and living Dancer, and a something in between Dancer. Rows of a dog that means nothing to him, a sudden obsession. 

For a week, Luke draws black dogs. Dancer. But he knows he isn’t drawing a dog, not really. He’s framing the eyes. The human eyes, almond-shaped and heavy and always green or blue. When he looks at his dogs, he knows that he is looking at something else, at someone else. If he stares long enough, he thinks that maybe he isn’t drawing Dancer, but over and over and over he is drawing—

Eventually, he gets caught. 

It’s midday, and Luke’s on the couch, notepad open and balanced on his knee, one socked foot resting on the coffee table to bring the paper closer to his chest. Kevin is in the armchair, hands linked over his stomach, slowly rising and falling as he naps. 

Using his right index finger, Luke rubs over the thick lines of Dancer’s body, smudging her into something like smoke, hovering with only the barest form, breaking through the lines of her eyes until they are hidden under black, faded but for the shimmering lines of lead. 

A hand drops on his shoulder and he jumps, grabbing at the wrist with his stained hand and wrenching around to see Shirley, eyes wide, staring past him. Luke quickly releases her arm. The lead leaves a dark mark on the blue veins there, like a fresh bruise. He raises his discolored hand and stares guiltily, uncertain if he’s sorrier about grabbing her so roughly or for letting her see his drawing. 

“Whoa,” she says, gaze flicking to him. He looks at the mess he’s drawn and then back at her eyes, her dark eyes, so worried. 

_Her eyes_ , he thinks. _Some of these are her eyes_. 

“Fuck,” he spits, then, “sorry.” He wipes his hand on his jeans, flipping his notebook shut and shoving it in his back pocket as he rises to face her. 

“It’s fine,” she says, glancing at her arm like she’s just now noticing that anything happened. “You didn’t hurt me,” she reassures, and a small smile promises that she’s telling the truth. Luke is inclined to believe her, knows that Shirley isn’t generally one to forgive a slight so easily. 

“You startled me,” Luke explains, wrapping his arms around himself and walking to her side of the chair. She turns, watching him carefully. He hates this, wants to move past suspicious and distrustful looks. He’s had enough of being studied. 

“I was checking out your drawing. What, um…?” She waves her hand in the air, apparently trying to ask what the fuck it was without being insulting. He doesn’t know how to explain, hasn’t even told her what happened with Dancer and Drew and doesn’t know how she’d react to hearing that he helped scoop up a corpse and is now obsessing over it. 

“I was trying to shade in a dog and fucked it up.” He takes the notebook out of his pocket and flips it to the right page, looks it over to make sure there isn’t anything incriminating and then turns it so she can see. “I was just going to do a shadow but it didn’t work so I blurred out the whole thing.” 

Shirley studies it for a few moments, leaning in so her nose is close enough that, if he was so inclined, Luke could leave the dark smudges on her face. He stays still, lets her look it over. 

“Spooky.” Shirley straightens out and meets his eyes. Still worried, confused. She isn’t buying his story. 

“Yeah,” he says, “a little spooky.” 

After that, he’s done with Dancer.

##### Day 217

Theo and Trish come over for dinner; Theo with her hands shoved in her pockets and a snide smile, Trish with a tinfoil covered dish. Luke lets them in. 

It’s a regular afternoon, passing conversation around the table and eating slowly, having an all-around nice time. Luke doesn’t think they were able to do this before. Slowly everyone moved out of Aunt Janet’s house and went their separate ways, and then contention grew with the years that passed, and get-togethers were not only rare but painful. Apparently, all they needed to get over it was a little additional trauma to paste over the original. 

“Luke, I hear you’re an artist.” Trish says during a lull in conversation. Luke clanks his glass against his teeth. He cuts his attention to Theo, who meets him steadily and shrugs, nonchalant but for the twinkle in her eye. 

He exhales slowly and turns back to Trish. She is smiling patiently and without Theo’s humor, genuinely curious. Trish is a real artist. He’s seen what she can do, flipped through streams of pictures Theo pushed on him and then at some stuff they had around the house. Tattoos, paintings, and a few small sculptures. 

“Not really,” he says. His face feels like it’s turning red and he can’t look up, focuses on swirling the ice around his drink. There’s no way to persuade someone like her that he has any idea what he’s doing, that his scribbles are anything more than that. 

“Can I see some of your stuff?” She continues, oblivious or unobservant of his discomfort. Luke looks back at Theo, who is arching a brow at him. Challenging. Theo hasn’t seen anything that Luke has drawn, not since they were kids. He stopped with the crayons after their mom died and never cracked open a sketchbook with snooping eyes around. Theo doesn’t think he can draw, either, shouldn’t even know that he does. Unless Shirley told her. 

“It’s just doodles.” He crosses his arms, trying to recede farther into himself, to tuck way into his own skin and vanish. Trish’s smile deepens and she waves him off. 

“Sometimes that’s the best shit,” She pauses to glance at the kids, then apologetically at Shirley and Kevin. “The most honest. Idle work by idle hands.” 

Luke suspects his idle work is slightly more frenetic than she is imagining. 

“Uh.” He stabs some greens with his fork, twists it around and wishes he could just turn to dust, wash away. “If you want, sure.” 

If he looks up, he’ll see Shirley pursing her lips and Theo, surprised, furrowing her brows. He focuses on finishing his meal instead. 

They wait until after dinner, then he reluctantly walks her over to the guesthouse. She trails slightly behind him with her hands jammed in her pockets, walking slackly and with an easy smile. He opens the door and lets her enter first, reaching in to flick on the light before she slips past. He runs his sweaty palms over his jeans and goes to fetch his notebook while Trish takes a seat in the armchair, slouched and relaxed. Perfectly at ease, the woman who showed up at her fling’s sister’s funeral without an invite. He suspects there’s something missing in her, whatever ignites fear and self-doubt. She’s the polar opposite of Luke. 

He tracks down the sketchbook in his sock drawer and brushes through it before handing it over. Trish flashes him a smile before popping it open and slowly flipping through the pages. She takes her time, studying each drawing, never looking up. He can’t make himself stand by and watch, sets off pacing around the room, trying and failing to not seem nervous. He runs his hands over the spines of his books and wishes there was a television or radio to switch on and kill the silence. 

After some time, Trish clears her throat and he whips around to look at her. The notebook is closed in her lap, both of her hands resting over the cover. He takes in her expression; surprised and awed. Both of her brows are arched and she is staring at him like he just recited pi backwards or something. 

She clears her throat again and says, “Wow.” 

“Hmmm.” He bounces on the balls of his feet and turns to the window, away from her. He shouldn’t be so embarrassed. He never claimed to have any talent. 

Luke hears her rise from the armchair and card through the pages again, and then Trish is standing beside him, presenting a ragged Dancer complete with oily blood. He nods but doesn’t look for long, blushing and ashamed. Trish chuckles and jabs him in the ribs with a long finger. 

“That’s actually really good, Luke. Like, scary good.” Confused, he finally turns to look at her. A dazzling smile, complete with dimples and entirely sincere. He instantly understands what Theo likes about her. 

“Scary I can see.” He allows, gently taking the sketchbook out of her hands and tossing it back to the armchair. They both watch it tumble through the air before snapping onto the cushion, open pages-down and bent. Trish’s mouth pops open. Luke brushes it off and cracks his knuckles, opening the door and letting in the warm air. 

They walk back to the main house together, this time side by side, and when they find Theo and Shirley in the sitting room, the women stare at them like they might have been out burying something in the yard.

##### Day 230

Steve is telling Luke about something he saw last night during his insomnia-induced Nat Geo Wild marathon. While he listens, Luke tilts his chair back so only two legs are supporting his weight, bounces forward so his knees bump against the edge of the desk before he launches backwards again. Steve tells him about a nature documentary about chickens swallowing their own eggs and calcium deficiencies, and Luke lets him, trying to imagine how a chicken can manage to swallow a whole egg or if maybe they peck it apart and swallow the jagged pieces. 

“That’s messed up,” Luke interrupts. He wonders if maybe Steve hadn’t unknowingly fallen asleep and dreamt about chickens. 

Steve drops the topic and instead says, “You know, when we were little Mom used to have this special song, just for you.” 

Luke lets the chair drop and bangs his knees hard enough to bruise, shifts the desk so it thumps on the wall. He swears and nearly drops the phone. 

“What?” He grits out. 

Concerned, oblivious, Steve asks, “You alright?” Luke waves his hand in the air as if Steve can see and leans forward to rest his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in his free hand. 

“What song?” He snaps. 

“Uh,” Steve starts, sounding like he regrets bringing it up. Maybe if he had more sleep, he never would have told Luke at all, kept it to himself. The thought twists in his stomach. “I remember thinking it was a funny song. I can’t remember what it was; she stopped once you could wander off on your own but for a while there was a song.” 

Luke tries to imagine it, his mother wrapping her arms around him, piles of hair loose around her shoulders, warm and smiling. Singing to him, only him. Like he was something good, something deserving of its own song. Just for him. He tries but can’t hear it. 

He doesn’t know why Steve is thinking about this now but he knows that when he mentions their mother there is an inky feeling in his stomach, an anger and a sadness and memories he can’t share.

##### Day 247

Luke is in the library, shuffling through the collection of books for sale in the basement when he sees her. He retracts his hand and ducks behind a shelf, leans out to take a second look and confirm that, yes, that is Joey. His Joey. He lowers into a crouch and watches her through the spaces in the books, feeling creepy and scared and very confused. 

She doesn’t look the same but he is certain that it’s her. Her skin is paler now, almost gray, and her hair is falling loosely around her face in tangled strands. She shuffles more than walks, and her jaw is clenched so tight he imagines her grinding her teeth down to nubs, cracking them apart in her ferocity. But her eyes, when he briefly saw them, were clear and white. Wistful, maybe. A little sad. And she doesn’t stumble or jitter nervously. Her arms hang loose at her sides and she kicks her feet lazily, shoulders slumped. He thinks maybe, maybe she is clean. 

She has her back to him now but he had seen her face, is positive that she’s Jo. Jo, kiss and run Jo, take the money and split Jo, stand at his local library and browse the aisles for a bargain Jo. 

He pinches himself, staring at her back as if it will waver out of focus and disappear. She stays, pulls a book out of the shelf and opens it to the middle, reads a little and then returns it. Luke chews on his lip and tries to move out from behind the shelf but finds himself frozen in place. What would he say? 

_Why are you here?_ She knew where he was from, must have known that she would eventually bump into him here. Was that the goal? Was she looking for him? Perhaps she started all over and is here for the fourth step, and she’s looking for him to apologize. He doesn’t need it, doesn’t really want it. Maybe she never broke her streak and is back to show him she’s okay. That’s better. He gets to see her and she doesn’t have to deal with it all over again. Or she is in the worst of it and needs money, doesn’t have anywhere else to go and is desperately seeking him out. 

Swallowing hard, Luke rounds the bookshelves, palms sweating, and starts towards her. He gets to a table of old classic, halfway between his hiding place and her, before a bolt of pain cracks across his sternum. Stutter-stopping, Luke grapples at his chest and stoops forward with a groan. His palms snap down over the book table and the glossy covers slide, sending him backward and down. He curls inward, grinds his teeth and starts counting. 

Two large hands curl under his arms and hoist him back to his feet, and Luke is met with the concerned glare of an unfamiliar old man. 

“Y’alright?” The man asks, voice hoarse. Luke stares at him, stunned, then looks over his shoulder where Jo had been standing just a moment ago. She’s gone.

##### July 2018

Luke remembers Joey running cool rags over his skin, her voice kind but rough, always on the edge of humor though he couldn’t tell what was so funny, never felt like he could really latch onto her, even when she was running her nails through his sweaty hair or holding his clammy hands. He remembers how good she felt, how everything was bad but she was there, some sort of bulwark, sad and imperfect but ultimately strong. The uncomfortable feeling of her lips pressed apologetically to his, his stomach bottoming out when she was just gone.

##### Day 248

Joey doesn’t appear at the NA meeting. She never appears at all.

##### Day 257

Luke sits down at his desk, finger between his teeth, and he writes.

##### Day 268

It’s starting to warm up outside, and Luke quietly steps out onto the porch to greet the morning. The birds are out, and he sometimes forgets how nice that sound is, to wake up and hear that the world outside is alive, not just sitting still and dead under a layer of snow. New and green, singing at the sun. 

Across the yard, he sees Andi crouched down in the garden bed. She isn’t dressed for her usual work, scrubs replaced with faded jeans and a yellow t-shirt. Her gloves are dirty and make her hands look disproportionately large, and she periodically has to stop her work to heave them back up her wrists, leaving finger mark dustings of dirt on the tan skin. Her ponytail is laced through the snap of her baseball cap. 

Andi is nice. She isn’t a particularly fussy person, as far as he can tell. She is straight to the point, straightforward but gentle, always eager to help and just generally friendly. They don’t interact too much, but once she went halfsies on a turkey sandwich with him and offered up the remainder of her coffee to him on more than one occasion, so she is alright by him. 

She’s chopping at the dirt with a silver butter knife and then plucking at whatever she has uncovered or loosened with the other hand. Luke steps closer to see what exactly she’s up to and finds a bucket at her side filled with green remnants. Andi is pulling weeds, carefully digging around and avoiding flowers. 

“Morning.” He says, hoping she doesn’t startle and stick the butter knife into his shin. Her shoulders jolt but she turns slowly, offering him an amused smile and waving the knife suggestively at him. 

“Morning, asshole,” Andi returns before gesturing for him to sit beside her. “Keep me company?” 

Luke does, knees popping as he eases himself down. He sits cross-legged beside her, brushing dirt and weeds off his pants when she tosses them at the bucket too aggressively and hits him instead. They chat lazily about work and home and some movie he hasn’t seen but she strongly recommends. All the while she goes about her business of cutting unwanted green from a sea of other green, occasionally moving them both farther down the flowerbed. He follows, dutifully pushing the bucket along as he scoots over, their conversation never missing a beat. 

He studies her work over her shoulder, watching her card the knife through the dirt, gently pushing some greens to the side but slashing at others, shoveling it all around until it is just dark soil and then leaning back to take in her progress before either reprocessing the same spot or moving over to the next bit. Some of it is obvious enough; things with petals and buds are left alone, grass-like structures are hacked away. But he notices that sometimes she hesitates at tall stems without a bud, and that certain items supporting petals are pulled up. 

After a while he sneaks closer so he is hovering just over her shoulder, close enough that he can smell the overturned soil and, dully, the flowers. Andi pauses and looks back at him, one eyebrow arched. He gives her a little more space, points at the flowerbed. 

“How can you tell the weeds from the flowers?” He asks, feeling stupid. Aunt Janet used to have a garden but he never went out to help with it, carefully avoided it. For years he hadn’t been able to look at it without seeing his mother in a sunhat, hair falling out in waves and her teeth bright white under its shadow, raving about roses, bursting red roses all along the house. A dream house she’d never get. So now he doesn’t really know what he’s looking at, beyond simple flowers and weeds and dirt. 

Andi looks down at her work and chews on her lip for a moment before wiping her gloved hand across her forehead, smearing dirt over non-existent sweat. He stares at the mark for a moment, unsure if he should point it out of maybe offer his sleeve, until she makes a clicking noise with her teeth that drags his eyes down to meet hers. 

“I just pluck whatever makes it look less neat,” Andi says with a shrug, quirking her mouth self-deprecatingly. Luke blinks, rolls in his lips and looks down at the bucket, wondering how much of its contents should have stayed in the ground. 

“Huh,” He says, and she laughs. A good laugh. Kind of shrill but totally shameless, chin tilted up and eyes squeezed shut. Under the sun, Andi herself looks like something that has sprouted from the earth, vibrant and freckled. Joyful. He can’t remember the last person he met with so much real and unhampered joy. The warmth of it makes him want to tilt closer and suck it up, to lay in the grass and watch her garden all day like a fat housecat, purring and waiting for scratches. 

Instead, he pulls away, up to his feet. Left-over specks of green fall from his lap and back to the ground where they belong and he helps the rest along, batting it away with the palms of his hands as he straightens out. Andi watches him for a second then sticks her butter knife into the dirt, scratching her nose and leaving more dirt on the bridge. 

“It might have something to do with leaf shape,” she allows, watching him carefully. Like she hit a nerve and now she doesn’t know how to respond. Neither does he. 

Luke clears his throat and looks overhead at the blue sky. 

“I’m gonna head in. You want me to bring you anything?” He glances down at her briefly and then back up, staring ahead at the house like he’s just now noticing something about it. 

Andi clears her throat and says, “Nah, I’m good. But thanks,” and then kindly turns her back to him and retrieves her knife, staring at the soil for a moment longer before moving down about a foot and starting a new patch, carefully carving with practiced motion, pretending that she knows what he’s doing. He hesitates before walking away.

##### Day 271

It’s clear that something is wrong the moment Luke picks up the phone. 

Steve’s voice is a rasp, crackling through the phone in greeting and then going quiet, waiting, preparing. Luke gathers himself. 

“You alright, Steve?” He asks, chewing on his thumbnail. His skin is almost tingling with nerves and he wants Steve to cut the wire already, get whatever needs to be said out in the open so Luke doesn’t have to sit in suspense and can move forward to dealing with it. 

“Yeah, yeah. I just got a call about the Dudleys.” Steve says. Luke imagines him sitting in his office, the door closed, slowly twining a pen around and around in his hand. 

The Dudleys. _Already_ , he thinks, _I just got out_. 

“Ok.” Is all he says. 

“They both died.” Said simply, so much buildup and the release is sudden, a silent break. 

Luke swallows, a feeling like foam at the back of his throat. Relief. Guilt. 

“In The House?” He asks, very still in his chair. He glances out the window, looking for Shirl. Maybe Steve told her first, maybe she’s waiting for the all clear to come over and pick his brain or make sure he isn’t having a breakdown. She’ll put on a jacket and rush over in slippers, ducking to keep the wind from her face. 

Steve hesitates, then, “Yeah. Apparently, he carried her the whole stretch from their house to… and he laid down with her at the entrance. In front of the stairs. She died and he followed a few minutes after.” He says it slowly, like he can’t quite remember what he was told. More likely he’s trying to find the right words. Always looking for the right words, not the feeling. Not the vision. 

“Good.” Luke says. There’s a startled silence. 

“Good.” Steve whispers back, uncertain, feeling out the sentiment. 

“That they went together. That he didn’t have to be alone. You know?” He explains, embarrassed. He’s saying too much, revealing the rotten part inside his gut, the part that is lonely from being cracked in half, that’s reaching out still for its twin. The part that doesn’t know how to be a singular figure, disconnected. 

Steve just says, “Ah. You’re right.” 

And of course, Luke is right. This is the only thing in the whole world that he really understands. Being two and then being one. Whole then half. Nothing is comparable. 

“So, is there gonna be a funeral?” He isn’t particularly interested in going, especially not now. But he has good memories with the Dudleys, even if they had a hidden daughter. Mr. Dudley had been gentle and carried a smile, was patient and listened to whatever Luke offered, even the nonsense. Mrs. Dudley had held him, sometimes stern but mostly sweet, cautious and caring and, above all, protective. They had done strange, perhaps wrong, things in their time but he believed that their intentions were pure. Abigail had been odd but nice and fun to play with, so they couldn’t have been bad to her. Just overprotective. 

For all the good it did. 

So, if there is a funeral, he will find a way to go. 

“I don’t think so. Guess they didn’t really leave much behind.” Steve says with the same tone you give a child who has just requested a wake for their goldfish. Luke tells himself it’s because he’s Luke’s big brother, not because he thinks he’s silly.

##### Day 282

Pain expands and throbs and blooms. The constant ache grows into a sharp and repeated snap, like a retaliating twist with each heartbeat. It starts in the morning, shocking him out of sleep. It rolls under his ribs with a crushing pressure and he claws at his own skin, writhes in search for a position that will ease the pain. He nearly rolls himself out of bed, grappling with his sheets. 

Then he lays very still, groaning like a wounded animal and clutching his chest, and waits. Nothing lasts forever. Either the pain will stop or his heart will eventually give out under the strain. Time ticks by slowly and he feels each minute, counts the seconds and keens through each agonizing shock.

It doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t die. Frustrated, Luke inches his way off the bed until he slides down feet first and slips into a hunched stance. He presses his fists to the mattress and bites his lip to keep from sobbing. He steels himself and starts a slow shuffle across the floor. 

Luke’s body is a mess of trembles, limbs turned weak and rubbery with exhaustion. He feels washed out and run over. His hair plasters to his clammy forehead. Each inhale rattles with phlegm and he wheezes each breath painfully. Making his way to the main house is a struggle, and he supports himself with his hands pressed to the side of the house, and then the walls as he goes directly to the sitting room and collapses, finally, on the couch. 

He wraps his arms around himself, pressing the knuckles into his ribs and doing his best to massage out the pain. Forcing himself into silence, he breathes as evenly as possible, setting his glassy eyes on the ceiling. His heart is rattling. He can almost hear it tittering across his ribs, begging for freedom. He can’t imagine a worse place to die than his sister’s couch, and he has seen some pretty rough shit. 

There’s a noise in the hall and Luke looks over to see Jayden hovering in the doorway, poking his head into the room and watching his uncle with an odd expression. Luke swallows and forces himself to sit up, breath catching as he moves. 

Luke opens his mouth to say something, but cuts himself short when Jayden steps backwards into the hallway, leaving without a word.

##### Day 300

Midway through his morning walk, Luke finds himself outside the bookstore again. Hutchinson’s. He stands there for a while, pretending to read the papers taped to the door but really looking inside at the rows of shelves. At this point, he normally turns around and heads back home. But there’s a nagging feeling in his gut that urges him to go on, and he intuits, beyond reason or sound thinking, that _that_ is what will finally make him feel better. 

Edging away from the door, Luke sneaks one final glance back at the sidewalk before slipping into the side alley that leads to the back of the storefronts. It’s narrow enough to make him claustrophobic, but he continues to the far side, stepping out into sunlight and rolling his shoulders. He takes in the unfamiliar territory. Behind him are the usual stores, and before him are the backs of a small candy store, a print shop, and a low row of apartments. He’s standing in a modest parking lot, only holding a few cars, probably belonging to the employees of the various shops and the apartment tenants. 

Luke continues on, getting away from the shops and heading straight down more residential streets. As he walks, the grip on his heart seems to lessen. Looser and looser as he goes, as if this is some sort of reward, as if he’s finally doing something right.

He keeps walking, even as his breath becomes labored and a stitch pulls at his side. It’s been so long since he’s felt this good. Ever since the hospital his heart has ached without a moment of relief, only getting worse. He trudges past houses, onto grass, through trees. His legs are rubbery from exhaustion and his mouth feels dry but the relief from the pain is so good that he could cry. None of the rest matters. 

Luke could go on forever, but his phone rings and he stops, nearly tripping over his feet with the loss of momentum, and reluctantly answers. 

“Hey, did you go out?” Shirley asks. She sounds distracted, probably looking over some notes or important documents while she talks. Before he can answer, she moves on. “I’m ordering in tonight. Don’t feel like cooking. Any requests?” 

Startled, Luke blinks the haze out of his eyes and looks around himself. He’s surrounded by trees, and cracking through the branches he can make out a dull-orange sky. The sun is going down. 

“Anything’s good,” he says, looking back at the path he had approached on. He’s been out all day. He doesn’t know where he is. 

“Where’d you disappear to, anyway?” 

_Hell if I know_. “Got caught up at the bookstore,” he lies, turning and starting back the way he came. He wants to be out of the woods before it gets dark, hopes he’ll find streetlights and houses on the other side. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

##### Day 305

The heat has become uncomfortable again when Luke gets the call. 

A house. A small cabin he had heard of so many times but had never seen, with a secret bedroom and a secret child, a garden in the back, surrounded on three sides by trees, the fourth by a dirt road that lead to town. He had watched Abigail walk through a break of trees, had gone half way with her, talking and stepping carefully over bursting roots and loose rocks. 

But they had never walked together all the way to the Dudley house, and he had never seen it. 

The lawyer says that there had been some odd documents that kept the paperwork from getting processed sooner, preventing them from letting him know that he, Lucas Crain, is now the owner of a small cabin in the hills. 

Luke hates phone calls, hates having to speak loudly and clearly to some stranger miles away, having to sound like he doesn’t want to crawl in a hole. But the man on the other end is kind and speaks slowly and explains everything clearly so Luke doesn’t have to ask too many questions. 

And he sounds almost apologetic, like he knows why this is bad. Maybe he’s read Steve’s books, or maybe the house is a wreck. Hard to know. 

He asks that Luke go to an office in town to sign some paperwork to make it all happy and official, and Luke makes an appointment, thanks the man and hangs up. Sits at his desk in silence, thinking over what just happened, trying to understand why. Why would they will the house to him, of all people? 

Sure, the Dudleys weren’t the most social, but there were three other much better and more capable Crain children to choose from. 

Abigail, he thinks. It’s because they knew that he was Abigail’s friend. 

Or, they blame him for her death and there’s something deeply wrong with the house.

##### 1992

There is one particular interaction with Mr. Dudley that Luke can remember with certain clarity. A summer afternoon, the day’s heat sizzling down into a more manageable shimmer as the sun tucked below the horizon, leaving a hazy film over the yard and a glow of orange just below the trees. Abigail had sat behind him, working her fingers through his trim hair, tying in bits of grass and laughing impishly. They’d had a nice afternoon. Abigail had snuck over early in the day and they explored the trees behind The House, finding and plucking mushrooms, tracking a bloated toad, wondering at mysterious animal tracks that roamed around the edge of the trees, a slow beast staring out at The House but never approaching. 

Abigail asked, “My creation is stronger than that of the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter. What am I?” Luke wrinkled his nose and considered, maybe, a mechanic. But before he could open his mouth to hazard a guess, Abigail sucked in a harsh breath and, in an instant, her fingers pulled out of his hair and only the soft sound of her retreating feet signaled that she was leaving. 

Luke went very still, knotting his fingers in the grass and staring ahead. Rows and Rows of haggard trees pooling out towards the hills, full of nervous beasts and howling dogs. Slowly, a dark shadow expanded over him, widening out as the slow thud of boots crept closer. Luke didn’t turn to see who is was, but closed his eyes against the dark figure beneath him. 

“You alright?” Mr. Dudley asked, and Luke opened his eyes, finally twisting around to see the pleasant man standing over him. He was carrying his old, red toolbox, and took the moment to lower it onto the ground, wiping the now free hand off on the front of his pants leg. Luke released a relieved sigh and nodded up at the adult, who smiled softly in return. “Why’re you sitting out here?” 

To a newcomer, it must have looked odd. A young boy, grass tied into his hair and no toys or books to keep him company, sat staring out into the woods. Maybe Mr. Dudley had secretly suspected that Luke, like his mother, was beginning to crack, to give in to the slow poison of The House. Though, Luke can’t remember now if this happened before or after his mom started acting strange, can’t remember if he later told Abigail about this conversation or if she apologized for running away from him without explanation. 

Luke didn’t know what to say and just shrugged, then turned his attention back to the trees. In truth, he didn’t particularly want to look at them, half-afraid that he’d see something lurking out there and that, no matter how adamant he was, no one would believe him and the image would be just another thing to haunt him. But the trees themselves weren’t bad. Nice, actually. There had always been something better about the country; a slower life, in some ways. Less hectic, fewer bodies barging around, less eyes and voices. Better suited for Luke, maybe. 

Mr. Dudley didn’t sigh or shake his head or any of those adult things, but rumbled with laughter. It had been a good laugh. Much different from the Crain laughs, or even from the laughs at his last school. Deep and churning and very nice. Like a marble rolling around in a bowl, but low. Reverberating. And as he laughed, Mr. Dudley brought down one knee and then the other, supporting himself with his palms pressed to the ground, and sat down beside Luke, who didn’t think not to stare. As he lowered himself down, the man groaned and Luke could hear both of his knees pop before he was seated. Still, he smiled pleasantly at Luke and began gathering blades of grass in his meaty hands. 

Mr. Dudley had working-man hands. Large and round with visible callouses and scuffs around the knuckles, nails cut short and rough cuticles. Luke imagined that if he shook the man’s hand, the skin would be rough but the flesh beneath would be oddly squishy, the gentle, protected layer underneath the hard plate. 

Once he gathered enough grass, Mr. Dudley started tying the blades into knots, connecting the individual strands into a longer rope. End to end to end, oddly delicate work for such squat hands. Tiny little knots built with thick fingers, careful not to tear. Mesmerized, Luke watched without speaking. They sat in unbroken silence for several minutes before Mr. Dudley finally finished his rope and passed it over to Luke, who took it with glee and held it delicately. 

“A snake,” he explained passively before he cleared his throat and adjusted his position to take the weight off his right leg. “Your dad tells me you’ve been having a rough time.” 

If Luke had gone to Mr. Dudley and said that his dad was having a rough time, Hugh would have been upset. He would have sat Luke down with his serious eyes and told him very calmly and plainly that there are some things that should be kept private and that there was nothing wrong with him anyway so don’t worry, _why do you think something’s wrong, everything is fine_. But Luke was a kid, which meant that he didn’t get privacy. Kids’ business is everyone’s business, possibly because they somehow haven’t earned the right to keep secrets yet. 

And yet, Luke felt guilty. If Dad was going around telling people that Luke wasn’t doing well it meant that Dad thought that Luke was doing something wrong and that he didn’t know how to handle it on his own. Luke could remember being young enough that he wasn’t supposed to be able to comprehend things that his parents said so they said anything and everything, and that they’d worry-whispered about Theo, how her temperament was changing and she was pulling inward, and how Dad had said _maybe we should talk to someone, maybe this isn’t something we can handle on our own_ and Mom had shook her head, held his head and reassured him. 

After a moment, Luke said, “I have nightmares,” because he can’t tell Mr. Dudley that there were cold, itchy things in his House, tucking around corners and waiting, waiting, waiting for new company. Mr. Dudley considered, rolling his lips in and breathing out slowly through his nose. 

“What are they about?” He asked, and Luke quickly shook his head. Mr. Dudley held up one palm, accepting Luke’s denial and moving right along. “Maybe it’s The House. It’s old, you know. Old houses sometime…give off an energy.” He waved his hands like he was swiping up dust or wafting a smell. 

“Why?” Luke asked, looking down at his own hands. 

“Because they’ve seen a lot of life. That House has had more occupants than most, and they all leave a mark.” His tone was lower now, his eyes heavy on Luke, pointed. A secret message in the words. Luke wasn’t sure he understood, but he knew what the words seemed to mean, what they meant to him. 

“Oh,” he said, and started pulling the grass from his hair one crisp blade at a time and letting each one fall unceremoniously to the ground. Mr. Dudley watched for a few silent moments and then pulled to his feet with a grunt, making an amused phew noise when he was back to standing. 

“You know, there’s no harm in being cautious. Just don’t let it overwhelm you,” he said, then ruffled Luke’s hair and set off down the path into the woods.

##### Day 306

Dinner is scalloped potatoes and steak, a fancy meal for no apparent reason. The whole family tucks in, thanking Kevin for cooking, both Shirley and Luke complimenting the meal and allowing him to preen under the attention. It’s possible something happened and Luke just isn’t in on it, or that they told him and he wasn’t really listening. 

Luke’s mind is elsewhere. He’s thinking of a house he has never seen; a cottage, two-bedroom, one bath, old. Apparently with a green farm truck in the driveway, keys in an envelope. A small chunk of land, a pond. A real, official pond that is noted on a map and that now, somehow, belongs to him. Luke, who has certainly done nothing to deserve it. 

Sitting out amongst the trees and idling away, waiting empty. A house that Luke, by all rights, should not have, and certainly not like this, and especially not where it is. But still. Still. 

Maybe they know. Luke looks suspiciously around the table. Not the kids, they wouldn’t have any way of knowing. But Shirley and Kevin. Maybe they got the call before him and somehow got the people on the other line to tell them what was happening, or to at least say something as vague as _we need to speak with him about the Dudley family will_ and now they are waiting for him to say something, watching to see how long he is going to keep his dirty little secret from the people who took him in at his worst and never asked for anything in return, how long he’ll conceal the truth from his own sister. 

What truth? There is no truth yet, nothing really to hide. There is a house. It was given to him. He needs to go sign some papers. It doesn’t have to mean anything. He’ll never step foot in that house and it’ll go on to rot without him. 

Or he’ll have it. He’ll pack his things and move in, start a quiet little life of his own. Just Luke, clean and alright. A little distant but harmless, or even not so distant. He could learn to talk, to be friendly again. Sure, he could. He’s met other clean addicts who turned everything around, went from being a recluse to a fucking socialite easy-peasy. He could do that too, move to a new town where he isn’t recognized, get a job and start meeting people. Fall in love, have some kids. Sure. 

But, then, he can’t. Luke only knows one kind of oblivion, one escape, and it has never done him any good. He’s a name in a book, a little boy from a popular ghost story, a haunted house. Luke Crain isn’t the guy next door and he won’t find solace in that little house that now belongs to him. 

He should tell them. Right now. It doesn’t have to mean anything, but it will if he keeps it a secret. He knows how these things go; one tiny thing grows until it’s massive and hard to manage and then it will explode and he won’t be the only one in its trajectory. These things have a tumble-down effect, direct to indirect and all-around bad. And if he tells them, he can cut it off at the pass because they certainly won’t let the house become a thing. Shirley will drive down there herself and burn the fucker down. 

At that, his stomach twists. The idea of his small cottage lit up- bright flames writhing for the sky, wood falling to ash and down into shifting piles- sinks his gut. Because it is his house, and his alone. The one thing in this whole world that is completely his, handed over freely and without qualms. Safe and tucked away, set far enough back into the woods that not even passing cars can disturb it. That is his house, and his truck, and his little pond to swim in. Maybe it doesn’t have to be anything more than that, not a home or a life. Just a squared-away little house that only he knows about. 

Shirley takes a sip of her wine and Luke looks at her across the table. She catches his eyes and grins over her glass, eyes soft and happy. Luke returns her smile and eats, reveling in his secret.

##### Day 307

“Luke,” Shirley says, and he turns from his notebook to face her. She is approaching from her office, eyes tired and repressing anger. Something has clearly happened and he can only hope it wasn’t his doing. He arches a brow, waits. “Can you do me a favor?” 

“Sure.” He says, unhesitating. Something, anything, to do, to keep him occupied. Maybe, if he’s lucky, something to get him out of the house. While the idea of being around other people, of being exposed to the outside world and no longer hidden away in his own bubble, is anxiety making, Luke is becoming restless. His days consist of his morning walks and then bouncing between the main and guesthouses, working, eating, and retiring to his room to read and, eventually, sleep. 

Shirley holds a hand up- wait until you hear what it is- and sits across from him, pulling out a wooden chair and dropping down unceremoniously. He should ask what’s wrong, but he isn’t sure anymore what is loving concern and what is prying. It doesn’t pay to be nosy when your sister is letting you mooch. He learned that a long time ago. 

“The kids have swimming lessons today, but we scheduled a client meeting that intersects.” Her hands are a loose ball on the table, fingers very still. He wonders if she had to train them to do that, to stay measured even when she was stressed or nervous, to be still when she was across from weeping clients, to work through their confusion and to create a calming space. He tries to remember if she was more anxious when they were children, but only remembers her carrying around that old camera, snapping candid photos and beaming when her subject would whip around to glare or laugh. And he remembers her nightmares, but not if her hands would tremble around her mug of tea, or if her voice would shake when Aunt Janet asked what it was this time. 

He thinks his sister must be a monolith, that she exists somehow outside of fear. A great, raging monster, swift to punish but somehow warm, loving. Pulling slowly, steadily through the water while the rest of them struggle to stay afloat. 

“Ok.” He says, ignoring how at some point he started to mirror her, how his own hands are resting in a knot on the table. 

“Are you going to be busy around noon?” She continues, looking him dead on in a way that totally allows him to say he is busy, though they both know that he hasn’t had real plans for a long time and probably won’t for a good while. 

“No,” Luke snorts, and he can hear her release a little breath. He furrows his brows and looks up, trying to read her expression. Does she somehow not realize how dormant he has become? Does she not know that when he leaves after dinner he is only walking across the yard and into the guesthouse, sprawling in bed with a book or simply staring up, tracing the lines of the popcorn ceiling and trying to untangle the mess in his head? 

“Ok, well, would you mind taking them?” She tilts her head and her eyes crinkle, teeth hooking over her bottom lip. She’s starting to trust him, which he tries not to let scare him. This is her asking him for a favor instead of demanding he leave, eyes hopeful instead of sardonic. Slowly, he is beginning to leak back into real life, becoming part of the world. 

“To the pool?” He asks, and she quickly nods. Luke imagines the pool, all the half-dressed people and the screaming children, people splashing and laughing and all of it echoing around the wide room, blue rivulets hollowing out the walls, dancing along as the water moves. “I can do that.” 

Briefly, Shirley’s eyes drop shut and she reaches for his hand, giving it a squeeze before she is back on her feet. “Thank you so much, Luke.” 

Feeling awkward, he stands too, gathering his notebook and pushing in his chair, eyes stuck on his sister. It feels like they are wrapping up their meeting and she is going to shake his hand and walk him out of the office, assuring him that everything will be done to the highest standards and he has nothing to worry about. 

She flashes one last smile, starts back to her office, and he quickly says, “Do we, uh, trust the teacher?” Which is really his way of asking if he needs to watch the kids or if he can bring a book and just wait it out. Knowing, always knowing, Shirley grins. 

“She’s great.” She says reassuringly, and then is gone. Luke stands alone in the kitchen and then takes his notebook back to the guesthouse, thinking about what book to bring along. 

 

~*~

 

The lesson starts at noon, but the kids tell him that they need time to change, so they should get to the pool at least fifteen minutes early, which seems like a long time to change into a swimsuit but he figures it wouldn’t hurt to just do what they want. They are social kids and probably just want time to talk to their swimming friends before lessons start. 

The drive is pleasant, Jayden up front controlling the radio and Allie kicking her feet in the backseat. Everyone is in a good mood and, blessedly, not arguing. He isn’t sure how he would handle being alone with fighting children, but he can’t imagine himself being much of a disciplinarian. 

The three of them walk in together before splitting off, the kids to their respective locker rooms and him directing himself to a bench far off to the side, away from misaimed water and semi-isolated from other people. He waits for the kids to emerge, surrounded by other children he doesn’t know, and to enter the water with an older woman, probably in her early forties who smiles widely, who begins instructing them. Then, he tucks into his book, one ear always listening to the pool but otherwise absorbed. 

Swimming lessons only last forty minutes, probably to keep the kids from getting exhausted or because that’s all the teacher can handle. Luke watches, finger marking his place until Allie and Jayden exit the pool and start in his direction. Allie runs up to him, dark braid swinging and dripping water behind her. Jayden meets Luke’s eyes and then ducks back into the locker room. 

“Hey, you did good out there,” Luke says, shoving his book under his shirt to keep it dry. Allie’s smile lights up and she stands before him, driblets of water falling in strings down the curve of both cheeks, forming at her hair line, expanding, and then plummeting. Strange tears. 

“Can we get popsicles?” She says in response, and Luke blinks. He sees now that her smile is expectant and he wonders if this is something their parents allow or if he is being swindled by a little kid. Either way, he starts fishing for his wallet. 

“Where?” He asks, looking behind her to see if someone is going to roll by with a fully stocked popsicle stand. Her giggle is gleeful and she half turns, apparently done with their conversation and ready to put on real clothes. 

“Across the street,” she says, and then rushes away. He follows her course across the room until she vanishes into the locker room with another girl. 

It doesn’t take long for Jayden to come out of the locker room a final time and to sit beside him, hair now only slightly damp and rustled. His bag swings in his arm and he lets it drop to his feet as he falls back onto the bench, expression pinched. 

“You alright?” Luke asks, with only a little reluctance. He cares, just can’t quite place himself in his niece and nephew’s lives. Isn’t sure if he is an actual figure or more of a barely-there wisp, appearing and then falling away with the dust motes, visible only when the light hits him just so. 

Jayden blows a long stream of air through his nose and then turns to frown at his uncle, says, “I don’t like swimming,” as if that is a full stop explanation. Maybe it is. Luke considers for a moment and then shrugs, letting his arm stretch over the back of the bench, lightly bumping Jayden’s back. 

“I don’t really, either. But I wish I did.” He tries for a conversational tone but suspects his awkwardness dismantles any potential at seeming collected. “It looks relaxing. I mean, it has to be kind of fun for all these people to show up.” He gestures weakly with the reaching hand.

Jayden makes a noncommittal noise and begins tapping his fingers against his knee, glares out at the water and says, “Why don’t you like it?” Seeking, Luke thinks, comfort. Confirmation or dismissal of whatever he is feeling. Something like concern itches up Luke’s throat. He is not equipped to help anyone, doesn’t know how to supply refuge or project security. 

Luke clears his throat and offers only honesty, “Scares me a little. I never learned.” 

He had tried once. Midday, out beyond either of their houses in what seemed to be the only level ground in the area, breeching the woods like some sort of miracle, was a glistening blue pond. Abigail had dragged him out there, her hand latched to his and her face dull, always a little flat. She told him that there were frogs around the perimeter and that tiny little minnows would suck on his toes, that they swam up little estuaries and ended up here. They had shucked off their outer clothes, him in his colorful boxers and her in what looked to him like an old-fashioned swimsuit that was made of taffeta and had frills down the front. 

He wonders, if he tries to find the pond now will it be where they left it? 

Jayden doesn’t respond, so Luke quietly continues, murmurs, “If I could go back, I’d definitely learn. It’d be nice to be able to join in. You know?” He doesn’t look at Jayden, but lightly nudges his shoulder, hoping that he will be granted some sort of affirmative or negative gesture. 

“Huh,” Jayden says, and Luke nods.

“Yeah,” he says, now speaking so only Jayden can hear, “scary shit doesn’t really make sense. Not in the moment. And it doesn’t matter if me or your mom or dad tries to tell you that everything is fine because…” he pauses, shrugs, “because it just doesn’t feel that way.” 

Now Jayden turns fully to look at him, face creased into a frown, trying to read his uncle’s face. Luke wishes he could give him more, open himself up and reveal how being a coward has made him sick, slowly eating away, small and thieving hands reaching, tugging. But maybe that’s too much to put on a kid. 

“I just think,” Luke cautions, “that you’ll end up mad at yourself if you quit,” and before Jayden can choose whether to respond, Allie comes springing out of the locker room, wet hair now in damp curls over her shoulders, and her bag bouncing wildly behind her as she runs, safely away from the edge of the pool. “Also, we’re getting popsicles, I guess.” 

They end up crossing the street, Luke uncertain if Allie is too old to hold his hand but taking the precaution anyway and keeping one hand in hers and the other, paranoid, on Jayden’s shoulder. Thankfully, the boy doesn’t shake him off, just keeps pace and leads the way into the little mom n’ pop place that looks kind of like a gas station without the pumps out front. 

When they return home, three melting popsicles in hand, both kids pop out of the car before Luke can say anything like, _please make sure you didn’t get anything on the upholstery_ or _don’t tell your mom I read the whole time_. 

Kevin steps out of the house to greet them, but they don’t stop for more than a shouted “Hey!” before shoving past him through the front door. He turns to watch them go and Luke slides out of the car, approaches with his hands stuck in his pockets. 

“What did you do to my kids?” Kevin asks, eyes flashing with humor.

##### Day 309

The local office is sky blue on the outside and beige on the inside. An elderly woman greets him at the door like a grandmother. 

It takes about an hour to talk through and sign all the paperwork. Luke listens but doesn’t really take in what the two women are saying (one, he thinks, a lawyer). It’s undoubtedly very important information and he’s losing it all as the meeting goes on. He just nods and tries to understand what’s happening, twining a toothpick through his fingers and nodding when he thinks it’s appropriate. 

Sign here, initial there, and it’s official. The Dudley house is in his name.

##### 1992

Luke told Abigail that a year ago they lived in a house on the main street of a little lake town, one built around summer vacationers and two long rows of stores. A whole town that bustled around just three months of new faces. So, while their parents worked on the house, the Crain kids would pack up a beach bag and walk down to the lake, wearing sandals and loose clothes over their swimwear, each of them with their own towel and strict warnings from their parents to stay in sight of the lifeguard and to never go in the water without a brother or sister. 

He told her how they would stand with their feet in the shallow waves, finding bead-sized shells tucked in with loose pebbles and how tiny minnows would zip around their feet, almost translucent in the water. How the sand was thick when wet and made easy sandcastles with moats and watchtowers. Sometimes the water was cold, but it wouldn’t matter for long, and the hungry sand would suck on their feet as they trudged so carefully into the deeper parts, waving arms and kicking legs, heads popping just over the waves. 

Luke was never good at that part, jumping off the pier and then pushing himself back up. Floating above the waves and really swimming. Steve, he remembered, would stand just under the pier and wait for Luke or Nell to drop down, and then would scoop them up as well as he could, holding their waists while they kicked haphazardly and laughed. 

And Shirley liked to sit a little bit away from the water with a book, a too-big hat blocking the sun from her eyes while she listened to them splash, looked carefully up from her reading and smiled out to them, sometimes tempted and giving in to their demands that she joins their fun. She would carefully dogear her page and rush out, tossing her hat down. 

Theo, floating on her back, staring up at the sky, or hopping in the water and laughing with her siblings, slashing her hand through the upper layer of water and sending a spray at them, sweeping in a long arc and grinning wide at her victim’s delighted or irritated shriek. 

Abigail tilted her head, smiled and listened intently to his stories. She always listened, always seemed so interested. It made him happy that she cared so much about what he had to say, but sad that she had missed out, that she had to live vicariously through him and his siblings’ adventures house hopping. 

“Have you ever been swimming?” he asked, pulling blades of grass up in his fist and letting them fall over her skirt. She grinned, swept the gray flecks away and threw a dandelion bud at him. He didn’t ask if she’d been to a beach; there wasn’t a beach in the nearby town and he couldn’t imagine the Dudleys going on vacation. 

“Yeah,” she said, and her eyes, for a moment, flashed wicked with a plan. His heart thudded a little faster, fear and excitement. “Sometimes I go to this place. A pond. I’ve never brought anyone before.” She kept her eyes on his, steady and amused. An invitation to go on an adventure, the risk of punishment. He smiled back. 

“Where is it?” They were getting to their feet, both already certain that they were going, however far. She grabbed the sides of her skirt and shook it out like a dancer, banishing the final remnants of their play, bits of grass and flowers falling to her feet. He ran a hand through his hair and combed out similar debris. 

“Kind of far. Not bad though. We can walk,” she assured him. Abigail turned a few times, taking in the field around them, just a little beyond his own house. She turned in the direction she came from and pointed to the trees, started walking away from him. After only a moment of hesitation, he followed. 

They trekked through the trees, talking in hushed voices as they went. The trees were spaced out and full of heavy green leaves and the trail was lined with tall grass and the occasional wildflower. He imagined fairies or deer or some kind of hermit ducking out of the woods and watching them, screaming out, bellowing. It would be a great scare, he thought, to be chased through the woods. Horrible but thrilling. He inched closer to Abigail, bumping the side of his arms against hers and she chuckled at him. 

“My house is just that way,” she eventually said, gesturing through a heavy group of trees that he couldn’t quite see past. He squinted, hunted for any sign of a house, of the tiny home she had told him about. But he couldn’t find it, and she didn’t stop to wait. He had to rush to catch up to her. 

They continued on. Abigail was more certain in the woods than he was. Her feet seemed to find their place, moving silently and easily through the brush as he stumbled along beside her, tripping on sticks and loose rocks. A few times, she gripped his arm to keep him from completely losing his footing and falling. 

Abigail, he knew, was special somehow. He’d never met anyone like her, so soft and nice, with a dark humor that he didn’t always understand. When he talked, she listened, but he also loved to hear her talk, to hear her tell stories, though he knew many of them were not hers, not from her own life. But stories about old relatives that were dead, or that her parents told her, or that she found in books. 

He followed her for half an hour before the trees split apart, revealing a bright clearing dappled by buttery light. On the opposite side of the field, there was a small stream, thin and burbling, stretching from the trees and connecting to the dull blue pond. It was noisy and calm. Abigail took his hand and lead him closer, right up to the water, and pointed out little animals bobbing around and going about their days. 

“It’s not very deep so we can swim,” she told him, already kicking off her shoes. He hummed nervously, looking into the clear water at the animals and the dark mud beneath. It was shallow, so he didn’t have to be afraid. He could just sit on the bottom and his shoulders would still breach the surface. “Nothing bad will happen, I promise.” Abigail whispered, as if keeping his fear secret from the trees and the small frogs and maybe even the fairies. 

He kicked off his shoes, and then his shorts and t-shirt until he was just in his underwear, and she let her dress fall so she was just wearing a weird frilly thing that looked like a bathing suit but also a romper. She always dressed a little funny so he didn’t ask what it was. 

With a giggle, she treaded into the water, wading in and crossing over to the far side before kneeling, lifting mud up in her palms and letting it spill back into the water with a plop. He exhaled slowly through his nose and then stuck his right foot in, testing the temperature. Under the sun, the water was mildly warm. Luke pushed himself and took a few steps in until the water was to his knees and then, staring at Abigail across the way and taking in her wide grin, sat down. 

Of course, there really wasn’t anything to be afraid of. 

She crawled a little closer to him, her legs floating in the water behind her while she tugged herself forward with her arms, digging her fingers in the mud and pulling. She met him and then twisted around so she was sitting cross legged before him, hands caressing the top of the water. 

“It’s really nice,” he said, meaning that the water was warm and all the creatures made nice sounds. Also, it was very pretty. He thought that his mom would like it out there, but not so much that he went out there to swim with a girl she thought was imaginary. 

Abigail flashed her teeth at him and lifted a handful of mud, giving no warning before smashing it over his head. It was thick and hit him with a heavy slap. It curled over his skull and dripped down, oozing in long ropes. He quickly yanked off his glasses and held them away, closing his eyes to keep the mud from them. Splashing, Abigail backed away from him and snickered. 

“There,” she said, as if this was the conclusion to some conversation, as if a slap of mud was a kind of response to him telling her the pond was nice. With his free hand he scraped his fingers across his face and through his hair, trying to clear the mud away. It stuck his hair up at an angle and he glared at her, blinking to keep his eyes free of the remaining beads of dirt that he could feel sliding around, sitting in the creases of his eyes and nose. 

“Yuck,” is all he could think to say. His voice was maybe harsher than he intended but she just fell back into laughter and there was something about it, something about that tinkling bell laugh that made his stomach clench and a matching smile peel across his face and his own laugh, small and maybe a little shrill, burst out of him. 

When they calmed back down, only a few small giggles trickling out, Abigail returned to his side and started sweeping her hands over his face and hair, helping him clean it. He shut his eyes and let her work, wrinkling his nose at the weird point of her nails as they scraped outside his nostrils, finger buds carefully running over his eyes. 

They played for some time after that, hovering behind small fish and flicking water at each other, talking quietly in their own small bubble. Somehow, the whole forest was separate, the world choked off, leaving just the two of them and their private terrarium, floating coolly under the gentle sun and watching the light fade from bright yellow to a darker orange, until they were in the dark, distant houselights and the moon their sole guides in the night. 

Shivering and pruned, they crawled from the water like new life, sighing as they pulled their clothes on over sopping fabric. Abigail took his hand and turned him in the right direction, walked with him until they reached the path they had followed earlier. 

In the dark, she whispered, “You’re gonna move again.” She wasn’t asking so he didn’t respond, didn’t know how to tell her that, yes, he would leave and it would just be her again, going on her adventures alone. She hummed and then took his hand in hers. It was cold and rough but he didn’t pull away, listened carefully when she asked, “Can I go, too?” 

The thing about it was, he really wanted to leave. Badly. But he also wanted to spend more time with Abigail. He’d never had a friend like her before, never met another person like her. And he thought that Nell would like her too, because he was Luke and she was Nell and it was just a twin thing. And what was one more kid? Especially one like Abigail, who was quiet and polite and really fun. 

“Maybe,” he said. “We’d have to get permission, though.” 

At that, she sighed and he knew that his answer had disappointed her. He bit his lip, tried to think of a better solution. He wanted to leave and she did too, so why couldn’t it be that simple? 

“I have to get home before my parents.” She squeezed his hand and then released him. He could hear her step back, could barely make out her dark silhouette stepping into the trees, the dull shimmer of her teeth. 

“Ok,” he said, watching her leave, and then turned back where he thought he must go and started carefully picking his way to the distant lights of his house. He counted quietly to himself as the darkness spit out foreign noises at him, low hums and chitters and snapping. 

“Luke!” He heard his dad call, voice rougher than usual. There was a white light through the trees, sweeping over and looking for him. Luke followed the light as it rolled over the leaves, listening while his dad called out for him in a faux calm tone. Steve and Theo yelled, too, their own flashlights blooming through the dark, shooting out in twin lower beams. 

He stepped out and three lights flicked to his face, burning after the long absence. 

“Oh, god.” His dad whispered, and then dropped to kneel in front of him, grabbing him by the shoulders firmly. “You alright? Luke, what happened?” 

“I was playing with Abigail,” Luke answered honestly, and his dad’s mouth pulled into a thin line. 

“Ok,” he breathed, and took Luke’s hand, so much smaller than his own. Luke let himself be guided back to The House.

##### Day 319

It is hot out. The sun beats onto Luke’s back as he goes on his regular walk, following his normal path in almost a fugue, recognizing the steps blindly. He listens to his own breath and the steady thud of his pulse pulling in his chest, a slight stitch beginning in his side. He didn’t bring any water and his mouth begins to feel foamy, spit bubbling dry on his tongue and sticking in his throat. 

After a short while he reaches Hutchinson’s, reads the little papers and notifications pasted to the glass door. Upcoming events, holiday hours, a few unrelated notes from outside sources. Now hiring. He focuses on that paper, the words printed large and orange at the top, sliding down into a brief summary that ends with Ask Inside for Application.’ 

Luke is not presentable. Sweat stains his shirt darker at his lower back and underarms, the ring of his collar also soaked. He is certain that his face must be blotched red and grossly damp. And he probably doesn’t smell that great either. 

But a job isn’t a bad idea. One where he can get out of his sister and brother-in-law’s hair and will have somewhere outside the house to go, a reason to wake up and shower, a destination to walk to. 

Slightly nervous, he pushes open the door and steps in. The air conditioner is blasting, a low hum in the small shop, and his skin prickles with the sudden cool. He looks around. He can see all the way to the back of the store from the entrance, is tall enough to peek over the row of wooden shelves, back to what looks like mugs and other book-related knickknacks. Side-eyeing the woman behind the front desk, who has her dark, curly hair bunched into a wild ponytail and her glasses riding low on her nose, bowed over a tablet, scrolling idly. She doesn’t look up at him and he quietly ducks into the shelves before she can. 

Luke trails along the rows, glancing over titles but not grabbing anything. He doesn’t take his wallet on walks, or else he would bring something to the counter to be slightly less awkward about this whole excursion. 

He stands in the back and takes in the small figures and bookmarks. In the corner, soft blankets are rolled and tucked into shelves along with pillows with embroidered quotes and large canvas bags. He hesitates, picks through these and looks for something one of his siblings might like. His three older siblings used to always be plugged into fiction, devouring books and falling so deep that they seemingly couldn’t be interrupted, regardless of his and Nellie’s badgering. Maybe they still do that. Surely, at least, Steve must. It would be unnatural for an author not to read. 

Giving up, Luke wanders back to the front, reluctant to interrupt whatever the woman is busy with. He stands at the counter empty handed, trying not to stare at Nicolette, as her nametag declares her. She clicks a button on the corner of her tablet and puts it down, smiling brightly up at him, eyes taking in his haggard appearance but not wavering in their pleasantry. She’s good at lying, he thinks. She has secrets. Him too. 

He tries to return her smile, but his eyes drop to her shoulder as he stumbles over his words, frustrated that he is unable to complete even this simple task, turning something so ordinary into a challenge. 

“I, um… could I have an application? For a job. Are you still hiring?” He clenches his jaw and resolutely does not move, doesn’t turn his eyes back to her and take in what he is sure is a kind face, one that hides and remolds to fit what is demanded. He doesn’t want to see false comfort. 

“Sure,” she says, reaching under her desk and shuffling around until she hits her target and presents him with one plain sheet of white paper, double sided with text. He takes it, thanks her and starts to turn, but his flee is interrupted when she continues speaking. “Yeah, you’re the first applicant, actually.” 

“Oh yeah?” he says, trying to be polite, to seem interested. He isn’t really sure if this woman would end up being his boss or just a coworker, but he doesn’t want to piss her off either way, especially before he even returns the application. 

He also realizes in this moment that this is the peak of his regular walk, meaning that Nicolette might recognize him every time he stops here. Meaning, if he forgoes the application or is not hired, he will either have to find a new walking route or he will just have to deal with the discomfort of worrying whether she is behind the door looking at him, recognizing him. 

“Mm hmm. I thought people would find this job more appealing. I like it,” she shrugs, settling back into her chair and letting her wrists dangle lazily on the hooked arms. He mirrors her, nodding and trying to rest back on his heels, to appear interested in this conversation. Still, she goes on. “It’s pretty hot out there, huh?” 

She gestures at his sweaty shirt and he sighs, pulling at it uncomfortably, self-conscious under her eyes. 

“I was walking.” He says. He takes one step back, closer to the door and she watched, a brow arching curiously. She is just making polite conversation. He doesn’t know why it feels so abrasive, why he is feeling his heart stutter and skip. 

Maybe she is just beautiful and Luke is dramatic. Or else he’s still dramatic but just afraid of people. It’s hard to say. 

Nicolette decides to free him, granting him one final smile before lifting up her tablet, unlocking it, and continuing whatever business she had been working on before his interruption. He waves and quickly backs out of the door, carefully folding the application in one hand and directing himself back to the guesthouse for a shower.

##### Day 330

Nicolette shows Luke the side room where employees are encouraged to take their lunch- somewhere far away from the stacks of books and knickknacks- and hands over a nametag, her smile pleased. “Here you go,” she says, dropping it into his outstretched hand. He studies it. Luke C. Like there is another Luke working here, or maybe the customers want to make sure that he does, in fact, have a last name, though it isn’t given. 

“Cool,” he says, and Nicolette snorts, pats his shoulder and then guides him to the front desk, where she teaches him about their computer system with merciful patience. 

There are pictures on this side of the desk, one of a red miniature poodle that stares right at the camera with its tongue hanging out and its brown eyes focused, and the other of a woman at the beach, her hands digging into her own stomach as she beds forward into a bursting laugh. There is also a tape dispenser shaped like a stretching cat, a Kleenex box, and a jar of pens with plastic spoons stuck to the tops. 

“Don’t worry, it’ll be a while before we leave you alone,” Nicolette says. Her teeth are straight and evenly spaced when she smiles. Sitting this close to her, Luke thinks she smells like men’s deodorant and sweet perfume, knotted together with some sort of coconut lotion. It’s a lot but it’s also nice, and Nicolette has the kind of smile that seems to justify so many different and strong smells all jumbling for his attention. 

They sit together for some time, her hands resting over her stomach as she swivels in her chair, speaking low but fast, her eyes always crinkled and ready for a grin. Luke likes that he doesn’t have to talk much, appreciates that she doesn’t seem to mind his silence and doesn’t force him to speak, doesn’t press about why he is quiet and demand more from him. Maybe she just likes to talk or maybe she understands on some level. Either way, it’s appreciated. 

Eventually she says, “I wanna ask you a personal question.” 

And the truth is that Luke put himself in a bookstore so he knew from the jump that this was a possibility, he just really doesn’t want her to ask. It’s been years and he’s done a pretty good job avoiding curious ‘fans’ who want a Where Are They Now reel of his family. But Nicolette is nice and funny and he doesn’t want to throw her off already. 

But still, he says, “What?” scratching his chin and acting like he doesn’t already know what she is going to say. 

“Why do you walk here so early in the morning just so you can walk here again later?” 

“Oh,” he says, scrunching his brows and looking at her doubtfully. “That’s not very personal.” 

“Well, you seem like a private guy so I used personal broadly.” She says, but her eyes are wicked. She’s teasing him.

##### Day 333

Unsurprisingly, the ghosts return. Maybe, maybe. 

Luke is vacuuming the display area of the funeral parlor, careful not to bump the wall too hard or back into the shelved urns. Back and forth, back and forth, the hum of the vacuum carries him back and forth. He does this often enough that he almost vacates his body while it happens, shooting up into the clouds and gliding, bumping through the sky and thinking about his agenda or some random fantasy. 

And then, with a choking noise, the vacuum shuts off. The grind and gurgle of death, and then heavy silence. Luke stops, too, unmoving, arm twitching to continue back and forth. He clears his throat, _don’t be a baby_ , and turns to see the cord still connected to the wall. 

And a head of blonde hair, pale under the dull light and draped over a smiling, round face. Luke gasps and drops the vacuum, slamming the heels of his hands against his temples and shutting his eyes. He counts, and counts, and counts. Listens to her bare feet pad across the floor, closer, stopping just before him. 

The vacuum switches on with a roar and Luke’s eyes flash open. She’s gone. His breath ratchets out of him, and he leans back against the wall. 

_No_ , he thinks, _I’m not doing this_. 

He gathers himself and leans down for the vacuum and is gripped by a sudden surge of agony. Hot and tight, his heart gives one abrupt squeeze and seems to hold. He screams, hands flying up to clutch his chest. He slumps to the ground with a groan, writhing on the carpet, blurry eyes in an unfocused spin. 

He can’t breathe, chokes and drools onto the floor, becoming red faced. He grunts. Opens his mouth and cries out, “Shirl, Shirl!” but the noise is little but a rough groan. He tastes coppery blood, looks at the blue wall and knows he is dying. 

His heart releases. He swallows air, tears rolling over his cheeks, nails digging into his chest, holding tight. He sits up, back to the wall. His eyes flicker around the room, making sure he is alone. He doesn’t move until Kevin comes home.

##### Day 335

When Steve calls, Luke doesn’t tell him. Maybe after all this time he’s finally learned some sort of self-preservation. But still, he should probably tell someone, and Steve is far enough away that maybe it wouldn’t even really matter, Luke could just shrug it off and say it was the insomnia, or maybe he was taking some sort of cold medicine that fucked with his brain, or he took a tumble down a flight of stairs. But he’s absolutely not insane, don’t worry. 

But he can’t really tell Steve, who is, by far, the worst person to tell and the last person he ever would, at least this time around. 

Luke knows what he saw, has always known. His own certainty hasn’t changed after years of being drowned by his siblings’ skepticism. Even when whole chunks of his childhood faded with time, the days in that House remained constant and sure. 

This is different than before. There’s not really any nomenclature for what he’s experienced because most of the stories people spew are complete horseshit and he doesn’t really think it would be good to try to apply them to his own situation, not if he wants to be taken seriously at all. So, he doesn’t have a great way to explain it, but this is definitely different than before. 

There have always been ghosts, but they weren’t always entirely right. Or accurate. He knows better. He can’t put a lot of weight on things he saw when he was high or depressed or had gotten the shit kicked out of him in the street. He can’t, no matter how vivid it was. Even if what he saw before was all real, it wasn’t. Luke manipulated it. His mother with glowing eyes, the Bowler Hat Man, were two different things and he swallowed them down until they merged into some fucked up trauma creature. 

The Crain family has been haunted for years, no doubt about it. But there was a clear diversion in their coping. Steve’s denial, Shirley’s anger, Theo’s walls. Struck by the horror of losing their mother in such an awful and abrupt way, and at their once doting father’s distance. Fear of mental illness, fear of being stuck. Hugh, Nell and Luke all had their ghosts, and knew them well. 

Luke is haunted. Really haunted. Like his body is an old house, vacant and covered in dust. Something latched on to him all those years ago as a little boy. Maybe in the basement, tearing his shirt. Or holding Abigail’s hand, running through the woods. Maybe at a tea party. 

Maybe he just believed too hard. A child in an old and powerful House, shuttering lungs welcoming. Crying for his mother so hard he summoned her, carried her under the skin. 

Luke. Scared little Luke, hiding under his bed, screaming at monsters that no one else saw. He was the weakest of them all. 

This is different. The girl was not like the things he had seen in the street, but clearer. Shimmering like moonlight but solid. Closer to what he used to see in the beginning, tucked around corners and reaching out. Not the lurking spirits of his adulthood. 

Steve says something about surgery and Luke pulls his attention back to the present. And he keeps quiet.

##### Day 337

By the time Luke steps into Hutchinson’s and slogs his way to the front desk, his heart is throbbing mercilessly and he is panting like he just ran a marathon. He jams a hand against his ribs and nods a greeting to Nicolette, who frowns and rolls a seat over for him to collapse on. 

“You getting a summer cold or what?” She asks, tone amused but eyes betraying real concern. She reaches into the minifridge and hands over a water bottle. 

“Think so,” he takes the water and swallows it down gratefully, groaning when it pulls it away from his lips with a dull pop. Summer cold is an easier explanation than _maybe you should check out my brother’s bestselling novel_ , or even _a House full of dead people confused me into poisoning myself about nine months ago and I can’t seem to shake it_. He caps the drink and rests in on the desk, finally breathing easier. 

Nicolette nods and hums sympathetically, then pulls out a desk drawer to reveal a stash of cough drops. He makes a pleased sound and reaches for one even though he doesn’t actually need it, and pops it into his mouth, earning a smile. Nicolette pats him on the shoulder and stands, hefting a canvas bag over her shoulder and waving as she heads to the door. 

“Call if you need anything,” she points an accusing finger at him and he waves it off, slouches back into the chair and watches her leave. 

 

~*~

 

Later, when she returns, Nicolette brings a Styrofoam bowl of soup and makes him eat it and keep her company for a while, laughing and swearing she just hates germs.

##### Day 339

There is enough of a breeze to make the night comfortable and to push the smell of the garden up to the front of the house, and Luke slowly relaxes, closes his eyes and thinks of kinder years, better summers. 

Luke sits on the porch and stares at the road and watches cars drive by. He presses a hand to his chest, stares and stares and stares and if he is quiet enough, he can hear the reel, hear the low hum of pulled wire, spinning in a never-ending cycle.

The front door creaks open and Luke glances over to see Kevin peeking out at him, brows furrowed and a cupped hand blocking the sun from his eyes. He looks concerned. After a moment, he steps all the way outside and crosses over to stand right in front of Luke, blocking the sun with his back. His eyes are soft and he wrings his hands together. 

Luke starts jiggling his legs so his heels drum on the floor, and Kevin’s mouth twists with displeasure. Luke just desperately needs to make some noise so they aren’t standing in awkward silence staring each other down. “Hi,” Luke says, for lack of anything better. 

Kevin leans back against the guardrail and skims over further pleasantries. “Are you feeling okay?” 

Luke picks at the outer seam of his jeans and considers lying. He looks up at Kevin with a weak sigh and says, “No.” Simple. Kevin doesn’t pause to be surprised, just nods and steps forward to help Luke up off the chair, turning him so their sides are pressed together and he can walk with one hand on his shoulder. 

Kevin eases Luke through the front door first and then guides him to the sitting room. When Luke risks a glance over, he sees no sign of discomfort on the other man’s face. Slightly serious but not overboard with worry. Luke bites his own tongue and forces his feet to the floor until they are in front of the couch. 

“Here, sit.” Kevin says like Luke would do anything else, and he watches Luke slide down onto the chair and then grabs the throw blanket from the armchair and settles it over his legs. Without explanation, he leaves the room and doesn’t return for about ten minutes, in which time Luke can hear the clank of cupboards and the buzz of the microwave. When Kevin returns, he has a mug in each hand. “Tea,” he says, smiling like he invented the stuff. 

He carefully passes Luke the mug and then settles in beside him on the couch, placing his own drink on the coffee table and fishing a rattling bottle of pills from his pocket. He taps out two and hands them over, smiles pleasantly while Luke swallows them down and then flips on the television. 

They watch reruns of CSI with the volume turned low and Luke eventually starts to doze, startling slightly when Kevin eases the mug out of his hand but easily falling back into the drift. He is only vaguely aware of Shirley in the room, whispering with Kevin, and then a hand gingerly combing his hair back.

##### Day 340

Luke is still wrapped up in the blanket when he sighs awake. Someone managed to tuck an extra pillow under his head without waking him up and his feet have been turned so they’re stretched over what had previously been Kevin’s seat. Kevin himself is nowhere to be seen. 

He shoves the blanket away and slowly sits up. The pain has dulled only slightly, and he is weary of setting the rolling agony off again so soon, if at all. After he is certain the slight movement hadn’t triggered anything, he slides his feet to the floor and stands. 

It’s dark outside now and the clock tells him it is 4 in the morning. He slept through everything. The idea of the kids sneaking around quietly, everyone disappearing to their respective corners and keeping everything soft and muted, makes him uncomfortable. The whole house moving around him. He doesn’t want to be coddled. 

He makes his way to the kitchen and finds Shirley there. She is dressed in sweatpants and, exotically, a Dead Kennedys t-shirt, and her socked feet are tucked up onto the seat, crisscrossed. When he enters the room, her head snaps up and she flips the page of her book as if to prove that she had absolutely not drifted off to sleep. 

“Morning,” she says, her voice sleep-heavy and rough. He hesitates in the doorway but then shuffles to sit beside her, pulling her book closer to him and shutting it with his finger trapped in the pages to hold her place. _The Stranger Beside Me_ by Ann Rule. He raises an eyebrow and returns the book to her. 

“Any good?” He asks instead of making any teasing comments. She shrugs and marks her place before shutting the book and setting it off to the side. She rises and passes behind him, running her hand over his shoulder to signal he should stay put. He waits, listens to her rustle through the cabinets and pop open a can, turns to see her making soup. 

Neither of them speaks as she stirs the pot, occasionally bringing the spoon to her tongue to check the temperature. She opens another cabinet and takes out a bottle of vitamin C chewable tablets, shakes two out and hands them both over to him with an uncompromising expression that he doesn’t challenge. Once the soup is finished, she pours it into a bowl and puts it before him with a spoon, then runs hot water into the pot before sitting beside him. He eats a little and stares while she rests her forehead onto the table with a tired groan. 

“You need to rest today,” she mumbles into the wood, then turns so she can set her stern eyes on him. “Call off work.” He starts to protest but she taps him with her knee and closes her eyes as if to block him out. Luke finishes his soup and promises to call in.

##### Day 347

Luke goes on his walk earlier than usual, yanks on his tennis shoes and eases open the front door, looking around as if someone will spot him, as if he isn’t allowed to leave whenever he wants. 

Instead of turning down his usual route, he goes east. Kevin’s route, to switch things up a little. He looks both ways, crosses the street and feels a tickle down his spine, a tug in his chest that he ignores. 

He hasn’t walked to the park alone before and just follows the sidewalk until he comes across a worn, dirt path that pulls away from the main way, turns that way. 

The little path goes on for a short while, fairly straight. He steps around fallen branches and loose rocks. And then there’s a large circle of trees surrounding what seems less like a regular park and more like something for dogs. A big open field outlined by full trees and evenly spaced benches. 

Luke follows the edge of the park, stepping beyond the trees and tracing their path. The sun isn’t up, yet, and the whole world seems to have fallen into cobalt blue. Silver moonlight hangs over him and he watches his shoes as he carefully pads through the grass. 

There’s a noise a few yards away that catches his attention. Luke looks up and sees a man stepping out into the field. For a moment, he is afraid. His body tenses and he quickly hops back past the trees, idling there and watching the man take in the surrounding area and sit down at one of the benches. Luke sighs, leans forward and silently observes the man. Half expects him to light up a cigarette and fiddle on his phone for a few minutes, a husband who promised he would quit, hiding from his wife. 

The man does start smoking, but stares straight ahead at the trees across the way, both hands jammed into his pockets. 

His coat is heavy, a dark shade of green. Underneath, he is skinny, legs sticking straight out without shape. 

Luke knows, instantly, what he is. 

A sense of danger crests in his stomach, along with hunger. His hands slide from his pockets and rest on the tree before him, his whole body tilting forward. 

Of course. This is his answer. Of course, this is what he needs. 

His mouth starts to water, and his eyes do the same. _He wants_. Beyond that, he knows. 

Knows that that man is waiting, and that he has little baggies tucked in his pockets and in his mouth, pills and powders and packets. Knows that anything from that man would ease the torrent in his heart, the pain, the tugging. The gaping maw, the lonely. Just once, and he would have a moment of quiet. Filled up. To get well, one last time. Really, now. Just one last time. 

He steps forward, steps back. The man hears him, rises to his feet and waits, frowns, sits back down but slowly. He’s getting jumpy. Quiet, quiet. 

Luke can see himself crossing the field, lifting one hand in a cautious wave, nodding once to say he knows. He pulls out cash and watches his feet on blue grass as he gets closer, stands impatient in the cold and trades the money for a tiny bag, a tiny needle. He steps into the trees again with a silent thanks and goes deeper into the brush until he knows he is alone with himself, just Luke and the birds. And he does it. Prick, plunge, peace. 

His hands twitch. 

He wants to. Maybe he would. But Luke doesn’t bring his wallet on walks. He stares at the man for another few minutes until a woman stumbles out across the way and shambles to the dealer, pale yellow under the slowly rising sun. Luke walks away, his mouth watering.

##### 2002

“Do this,” the other man said, and he guided Luke through each step, helping him with the needle like they weren’t doing something totally stupid and life ruining. “Yeah, yeah, man,” his voice trilled like he was excited to witness Luke get high. Maybe he was, Luke couldn’t claim to understand anyone’s motives. 

The feeling was new. So new. Big and bright, abstract and clear. Like a whole different world forming out of the real one, like the real world spilled over and he was finally catching a glimpse of what lied beneath, the ugly, burbling truth slashed from the inside of the world. 

Later, he called Nell to come get him. She pulled up in Aunt Janet’s car, frowning at him as a friend walked him up from the house, hooking Luke’s shoulder under his arms and smiling brightly, chuckling as Luke stumbled. Nell had just got her license, but she was a good driver. Possibly the best of the Crain siblings. 

The friend folded Luke into the passenger seat and said something teasing to Nell about a few too many and then exited, ruffling Luke’s hair and then departing back to the house. Nell leaned over and made sure his seatbelt was on before backing out of the driveway. She was upset with him, he thought. She didn’t like it when he drank. But he wasn’t drinking. 

He pulled himself up in his seat and watched the world shift, like unsettled sand, crashing and falling and then coming together again, bits and pieces completely displaced and tumbling. It was a good feeling, but horrifying in a new way. He felt a little nauseous, like a spot of boiling water in his stomach. Hot and shifting. 

“Luke,” she said, softly, “look at me. Are you alright?” 

He turned to look at her and her hands were off the wheel. She was looking him straight on and the car was stopped. Luke frowned, looked out the window. They were pulled off onto the side of the road, in a little patch of grass just outside the dense woods. 

“Oh,” he said, brows creasing. He was a little lost, admittedly. He was a little disconnected. “This is bad,” he hummed, lips thinning into a line. He couldn’t look at her. 

“What happened?” She asked, grabbing his chin and directing him to look at her. Her hands were careful and warm, and she angled his face so she could look into his eyes, scanning them for signs of something. She pulled back. He didn’t follow. 

“Yeah,” he started, looking out ahead of the car, feigning disinterest. She put a hand on his shoulder and his lip quivered, a dead giveaway. 

“Luke,” gentle, gentle like the snow. She looked at him warmly, the only one with clear eyes, the only one without the overhang of shame, of embarrassment and doubt. Nell knew him and she loved him, as he did her. 

“Sorry,” Luke choked, and tears welled in his eyes. He brought his hand up, pressing his palm over his face to hide them, teeth clenched as he held back a sob. “I’m so sorry, Nellie. Please, don’t be mad. I messed up. I’m sorry.” He begged, and her grip on him tightened as she pulled him in closer, his body arching over the center console and crashing into her small shoulders. Her hand soothed up and down his back as he let the tears spill over. 

“Tell me what happened. It’s alright, just tell me.” She whispered, cradling him. He hated this, hated being sixteen and acting like a kid. Still weak and scared after all those years. 

Shamefully, throat tight with regret, he exhaled his guilt into her ear. She was silent, holding him without saying a word, her hand suddenly still on his back. He tensed. 

“I won’t do it again,” He promised. Eyes now wide open, he could see his own reflection in the window, the careful shapes of him and her. Faded. 

“Okay,” she said, and her voice was thick. His stomach clenched and he pulled far enough back to see her face, covered in tears and flushed. 

“Oh, Nellie,” he breathed, swiping away a fresh tear with his thumb. He shouldn’t have asked her to pick him up. “It was just this once. I promise.” And he was being honest. He didn’t want to do this again, didn’t want to make anyone feel like this over him, didn’t want to feel any more displaced that he already did. 

She nodded, eyes wide, staring at him with something like fear. It took him aback. 

“I didn’t feel anything,” she said, “I didn’t know.” They were both silent for a moment, and then a new wave of tears sprung forth and it was his turn to soothe, to hold her and wait out the storm, to make hushed promises under his breath and kiss her cheek once she had calmed, give her a tired smile while she restarted the car and pulled them back onto the road. 

He kept the promise for six years.

##### Day 348

Luke can’t stop trembling and his hands shake all day at work. The urns rattle in his hands while he dusts and Shirley and Kevin and Nicolette keep asking if he’s alright, if he’s feeling sick again and he keeps thinking about the man and about his heart and about the Dudley house, waiting.

##### Day 349

In the end, Luke gives in and confesses. Steve is talking about the book he’s working on, grumbling about first drafts and the well running dry and then nothing. Luke hadn’t even realized he was phasing out of the conversation, leaving Steve to ramble into the void. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice is cautious, pulls Luke out of his thoughts. 

“It’s just… don’t get upset,” he starts, grabbing the front of his hair and tugging. 

“Okay. Alright. Just tell me.” 

If Luke was better, he would tell Steve what happened at the park, tell him that he isn’t doing well and that one day he’s going to do it again, but not this time, this time. What stops him is, if he tells, he can’t do it. Or maybe he wouldn’t do it either way and he’ll be worrying them for nothing. Or maybe it doesn’t matter if he would do it or not, but that they’ll stop trusting him again, that Steve and Shirley and Theo will sigh and roll their eyes because of course Luke would fall over himself again, trip up and bring them all down with him. 

And they wouldn’t be wrong. 

But Luke is just Luke, so he doesn’t say that. Says something else that is very honest and hard but still important. 

“Since everything happened,” and _everything_ could really only be in reference to The House, to dying and living again, “I’ve had this pain.” Though Steve cannot see him, Luke gestures to his heart with a clawed hand. 

“Okay, what kind of pain?” Steve has plastered on his calm big brother voice, the _I’ve got you, we’ll do this together_ voice. 

“Um. It’s nothing Steve. I just—” Out of nowhere, his breath catches and hot tears threaten to spill over his face. “Sorry. It’s just—” 

“Hey, talk to me, Luke. Breathe and tell me what’s wrong.” Luke takes a moment, shuts his eyes and counts, tries to ease his breathing. Relax, he thinks, just calm down. 

“It hurts. My chest. It feels like- like,” He huffs, scraping his nails through his hair, “like there’s something in there. You know? Like a rock, or something, Steve.” 

“Jesus.” Steve sounds worn, tense. Luke falters under the tone. 

“I know how it sounds, but it’s real.” 

“You need to go to the doctor.” Steve is firm, setting a command, not a recommendation. 

_He believes me_. Luke shivers, swallows hard and nods at the wall. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

“Tell Shirley right now. Make an appointment in the morning for their earliest availability. I’m serious, Luke. You know Dad was taking heart medication, so chest pain could be really serious.” 

Luke breathes out, once, twice.

##### Day 350

When he tells Shirley, her eyes widen and she reaches out, then lets her hand drop. Nods. They think it’s the drugs. He thinks so too. Probably. It would make sense if after all this time, when he’s stopped and started something new, the drugs will finally kill him. If anything, it’s morbidly funny. 

Or maybe he’s still dying from the rat poison. His treatment was incomplete or something else happened in that old House that clung to his system, slowly pulling him apart from the inside. He supposes that would make sense, too. Either way, he wouldn’t be particularly surprised. 

Later, he sits in Shirley’s chair while she and Kevin talk to a client. Before him on the desk is a calendar and Luke taps his pen against it and listens to the phone ring. He counts the rings, nine rings, ten rings, and then a cheery voice answers. 

They say they can get him in in about a week and he scribbles the information down in the white square, thanks the lady and hangs up, then leans back and rocks himself in the chair. 

He has had the pain for a while now. A week is no time at all, comparatively. If he’s been coping up to now, he can handle a little more time with it. He can push it back and away, he can ease it out of his mind or just duck out himself, force himself into daydreams or out of his own head.

##### Day 352

Shirley drives Luke in to see the doctor during her lunch break, one hand on the wheel and the other tangled with his. When he looks, her face is porcelain smooth and cool, not giving away any signs of concern. That’s her mothering face, the one she puts on for the kids when they need her to be okay. Maybe that was the key to being brave, having someone in your life who needs you to smile through the pain and support them. Bravery as sacrifice, an example of love. 

On one side of the doctor’s office is a gym, long and square with tall glass windows that show rows of machines and people in spandex. On the other side is a small cemetery. Luke doesn’t know if that is normal or cruel but he doesn’t enjoy the imagery. 

The waiting room is lemon yellow. Most of the chairs are empty, but there is a congested old man snorting in the corner and a young woman closing her eyes and leaning far back in her chair, mouth drooped open. Shirley takes a seat and Luke goes up to the front desk to check in, feeling a little reminiscent of rehab, a totally different kind of misery. 

The man behind the desk passes him a clipboard and he returns to Shirley and fills it out as quickly as he can, then returns it and sits back down. Shirley is typing something on her phone, and if he leans back and angles himself just right he can read the WebMD article over her shoulder. She thinks he’s dying. It wouldn’t be the most surprising thing to happen to this family, nor the greatest of tragedies. He imagines in some small way it would be a relief. Once the dreaded thing happens, at least no one has to worry about it anymore. And worry has certainly been his major contribution to the family. At least an unexpected heart disorder would be less alienating than finding him covered in his own vomit, a needle in his arm. 

They’d already done that once. No need for repeats. 

The doctor asks for family history and does scans and x-rays and blood tests and sticks little cords all over his chest and plays with the dials and then sends him home, promising to call to make an appointment for results in a week. 

They leave, unsatisfied, Shirley tapping her fingers nervously on the steering wheel the whole way home.

##### Day 360

At his last NA meeting, Luke talks. 

“My sister,” he begins, hands shoved into his pockets, body jittery and uncomfortable under all of their stares. He doesn’t know if he ever really learned how to talk, how to project a good personality, one that people latch on to. “My sister is a mortician. She works with the dead.” 

A few of the other attendees pull faces, some disgusted and others impressed. Mostly he is met with blank expressions. He aims his sight just over their heads to the back wall and continues. 

“In a few days, I’ll be a year clean. I was worried for a while, you know? That nothing was ever going to feel right. But then I started to find it, started to find a nice place to be. A way to live. And now… everything is changing again. Getting bad in ways I don’t really understand, kind of like it used to be but worse. Because, um… well.” 

He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand. A quick glance over shows him that a few of the people are nodding with solidarity or sympathy. Simone, sat at the head of the table as always, has pulled her lips into a tight, concerned line and is watching him carefully. Waiting for some big reveal. He clears his throat and looks away. 

“Like I said, my sister is a mortician. Bodies show up at her house and she takes them in, cares for them. Really cares for them. She worked on our other sister and our dad earlier this year. And I can’t let her do that with me. I can’t. I mean, I think about my twin a lot. She’s the sister. The dead one. The one who died. She, uh… I mean, of all of us she was…. We’re all fucked up. Sorry, hold on.” 

Luke closes his eyes and clamps his mouth shut. His throat is starting to feel tight and his eyes feel hot. The last thing he needs now is to bawl in front of all these people, to show up and finally speak after months just to lose it and then disappear completely. He takes a few deep breaths and collects himself before going on. 

“Okay. My mom killed herself when we were six and my twin hung herself last October and then a few days later my dad… I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I think he kind of killed himself, too but…. My sister is a mortician and she takes care of her family. That’s what she does; Shirl takes us when we’re at our worst. She looks at us.” 

He stares intently at the people, desperate for them to understand what he’s trying to explain. His rant has amped up the tension in the room and a few of them are angled in their seats as if he might really break down and they’ll have to make a quick exit, whether that be for their safety or to save themselves further discomfort. Luke sighs and focuses the rest of his words at Simone. 

“Like I said, things have been changing. Maybe just for me. Probably. And I need to make sure that I don’t become… that she doesn’t have to do that for me. I love her too much for that. I- I’ve seen a bit of what she does. She’s good at it. But I can’t add to it.”

 

~*~

 

Before Luke can leave, Simone gently ushers him to the side, her hands knotted together and twisting anxiously. The concern in her eyes sets something off in his chest and he shakes his head, trying his best not to seem manic but needing to get away, and he steps around her and goes. 

 

~*~

 

At home, Luke sits at his desk and stares at the clean chips clashing in the fish tank, all the little disks and buttons. He takes it and shoves it in the cupboard under the bathroom sink, out of sight.

##### Day 361

The doctor calls a week after Luke’s visit and makes an appointment for him to go get his results. This time Luke drives himself, borrowing Shirley’s car with a promise to tell her everything. 

He signs in and then picks a seat in the waiting room, resting his hands in his lap and taking in the other patients. The middle-aged man beside him is dipping in and out of sleep, a fever leaving him groggy and gurgled. A row of seats in front of him, someone rests her head against an older woman’s shoulder while the older woman holds her close and whispers to her. Off to the side, a young child plays with the same toys other sick children have been playing with and puts his fingers in his mouth. 

A man steps into the doorway with a clipboard and calls Luke back, smiling pleasantly at him when he stands. They walk past a few doors and the man gestures to a free room and tells Luke to take a seat, the doctor will be just a minute. Luke does as he is told, wringing his hands nervously and trying not to stare at the door, not to swing his legs and kick the metal table just for something to take his mind off the whole shitshow. 

The doctor knocks once before stepping in, peaking her blonde head in to make sure she has the right room before grinning. Everyone at this office is all smiles all the time. If she gives him bad news, he’s going to remember that smile. 

“Luke Crain? Hi.” She says, glancing quickly down at her clipboard and then crossing the room to sit down on a high stool so she is level with him. She is wearing a dark purple sweater and black slacks, a delicate golden chain ending with a ring around her neck. For some reason he had expected scrubs, but maybe family doctors don’t wear them all the time. He hasn’t been to a regular doctor in a while, usually just whoever is at whatever rehab facility or emergency room he’s landed in. “I have some results for you. All good. None of the tests came back with anything wrong, except you have slightly high blood pressure.” 

Something in his chest seems to unclasp and he relaxes his shoulders, lets his hands rest on his knees instead of running them together. Not dying. He brushes a hand over his heart and exhales. 

“So, what’s causing the pain?” 

The doctor hesitates now, looking back down at her papers. The smile never leaves her face, though, just settles into some sort of placid joy. 

“Like I said, there’s nothing physically wrong with you. And when we can’t find the source in the body, we look elsewhere.” 

“I don’t understand,” he says, even though he does. This is not the first time he has had this conversation, not even the second or the third. He’s been getting this talk since he was a confused six-year-old wanting to know where his parents went and why dad left if mom was the one who died. This isn’t even the best version of the talk he’s had. 

The nurse finally drops the smile and nods, eyes falling back to the clipboard. She must be new, hasn’t figured out how to be clinical yet. 

“Well, you recently experienced a really serious trauma, Mr. Crain. And something like that can cause a lot of emotional harm, just like blunt force can break bones.” She talks with her hands and furrows her brows with the metaphor, maybe uncomfortable with the cliché or uncertain if he can comprehend what she is saying anyway. 

“Ah.” Luke wonders if it isn’t in his file that the recent experience was not his first foray with trauma or, really, with poisoning himself. Maybe she doesn’t realize he’s had this conversation before, or she thinks that somehow, she is going to be the person to finally get through to him. Unlikely. 

“Your pain could be psychosomatic or anxiety related. And anxiety isn’t uncommon with people who have struggled with addiction. I would really recommend talking to someone.” She pulls a few brochures from the bottom of her stack of papers and holds them out like playing cards. Green, pink and blue, all with very serious titles about what ails him. Realizing that they are his, he reaches out and grabs them from her with a stiff smile, presses them into a neat pile and then sticks them under his arm. 

“A therapist.” He stares at his lap and nods defeatedly, and the doctor nods back more excitedly, any semblance of happiness drained from her face. Luke is almost guilty about being the cause of its loss, of being so difficult a patient. Then again, he’s used to upsetting but not surprising people. 

“I have the names of a few local people who could probably really do you some good.” She goes back to her clipboard, holding it closer to her now as if in defense. “A lot of people swear by them. Nothing to be nervous about, really.” 

Luke takes the names and phone numbers, pretending to be appreciative, and shakes her hand before she sweeps out of the room, probably relieved to get away from his cloud of doom. 

 

~*~

 

Shirley is waiting for him when he gets back to the house, sitting on the porch chair with her bare feet tucked up under her, phone resting beside her hip. When he pulls into the driveway she is already up and heading down the steps, face as relaxed as she can make it but shoulder high and tense. 

“So?” She asks, voice low. Luke offers her a smile and shrugs.

“Nothing wrong with me. Physically.” He doesn’t stop walking to the house, just starts up the steps and keeps his jaw locked tight. Shirley rears back and watches him get away from her. Then she huffs and charges to meet him. One of her hands takes his elbow and stops his ascent. 

“What does that mean?” Her voice has edged just away from cool to piqued. Luke doesn’t think it’s aimed at him, he just wandered into the firing line. He looks longingly at the door and then turns himself to fully face her. 

“Nothing. Doc said it’s just an anxiety thing. We got worked up over nothing.” 

“That’s not nothing, Luke.” And she’s soft again, searching his face for something he doesn’t think she’ll find. He shrugs and starts back up the steps. This time she lets him, keeping just a step behind. 

He starts towards the living room but she catches his arm again and steers him to the dining room. He allows himself to be led without question, shifting so she walks beside him. When they get there, he is directed to sit at the table and she steps away to the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and making gentle clanking sounds as she prepares something. Luke closes his eyes and rests his chin on his hand. 

“Did she say what to do about it?” Shirley’s voice drifts over and he shakes his head at no one. 

“Just wait it out.” He doesn’t mention therapy and doesn’t plan to. He can’t go to a therapist. What’s he supposed to say? Sometimes I see things? _My siblings used to see things too but now my sister is dead and everyone else is over the ghosts but me. Yeah, doc, sometimes I go on walks and there’s a giant in a bowler hat following me, or a little girl I used to play with peeks at me from behind a tree. No, I’m not crazy. Maybe. I think they’re ghosts. I think they’re still ghosts._

Besides, Nell had a therapist and it didn’t do her any good.

They are both quiet but for Shirley’s machinations in the kitchen, and she eventually emerges with two bowls. She places one in front of him and he looks to see it full of ice cream. He looks back up at her already digging in to her own bowl, eyes focused downward. It’s an old trick, one she used to pull when they were kids and she didn’t know what to say to make things better. Something small and simple, brief pleasure in the midst of hell. Luke has to blink several times to keep his eyes dry. 

After the bowls are in the sink, Luke sneaks away to the guest house and calls his brother. The phone only rings twice before his brother’s rushed hello, voice stiff like he expects bad news. It’s more realistic than pessimistic. Their family rarely gets good news, and almost never from Luke. Luke quickly give him the same spiel he did Shirley, pacing from one wall to the other as he does. 

“Doc says it’s normal with junkies.” He finishes, sitting down on the end of his bed and staring at his stuffed bookshelf, wishing he could just fold himself up and hide. 

There is a long silence while Steve absorbs all the information, and Luke falls back and closes his eyes, waits forever. When Steve does respond, his voice is low enough that Luke isn’t sure he is being spoken to, suspects it is just verbal processing or self-assurance. 

“That makes sense.” 

“Guess I didn’t know,” Luke says, embarrassed. “Never gotten this far before.”

##### Day 365

Luke celebrates one year clean. Shirley and Theo take him to a movie and they get dinner, simple and easy and fun. He ignores that Shirley treats him carefully like his heart will burst if he gets overexcited. And he ignores that a part of him fears the same thing, and how his hand presses to his chest almost absentmindedly as he tries to loosen the clenched hold there.


	2. Chapter 2

##### Day 368

Luke wakes up with an old song in his head, one he can’t quite place, hazy and detached but nice.

##### Day 385

It is nighttime and Luke lays sideways in his bed, feet hanging towards the bedside table and head resting near the bookshelf. One of his hands is pressed to his exposed ear and he forces himself to breathe evenly- in, out- and counts to himself, up and down the narrow scale. Anything to blot out the stirring, spinning behind the wall. 

He’s so used to it at this point that he has learned how to sleep around it, and is fading out when something slides up the side of his foot. He goes very still, opens one eye and stares intently at the wall, waiting for it to happen again, for proof that he didn’t just make it up in his near-sleep state. His foot feels too exposed in the open air but he holds it still, doesn’t move. 

Nothing, nothing and then the sensation repeats. Something slides up his foot, rolling over the curve of his heel and then traveling straight to the big toe, unhurried. Once more, then twice. With a shuddered gasp, Luke yanks back his foot and sits ramrod straight in bed, wide eyes staring into the dark. 

He finds no dark forms, no heavy shadows or crouching figures waiting by the bed, smiling mischievously. He bites the inside of his cheeks and rolls forward in the bed, grabbing his knees and turning, inching back against the headboard. He is alone. It was his imagination. Luke knows what is real from what is fake. He really does. After all this time he must. 

And then. One dark arm, quirked abnormally at the wrist, twists over the front of the bed, reaches across the blanket, long fingers twitching and curling their way up towards him. Then a second arm follows just beside the first one, trailing slightly behind but moving over a parallel path. Luke grabs the headboard and pulls himself up, standing on his mattress and staring down the bed, breath caught in his throat and heart too stunned to stutter. 

For one strangled second, he does nothing but watch the arms chase him, tension spilling over his shoulders and clenching his knees, holding him very still. Then, with a strangled groan. Luke launches himself out of bed and to the floor, feet smacking on the hardwood. Without further hesitation, Luke runs. He hurries to the front door, twists the lock and pushes out, swallowing the cold night air and tripping down the porch steps. 

Very carefully, he does not scream. 

Once his bare feet are in the wet grass, he slows from a run into a power walk, moving stiffly and not looking back to the open door of the guesthouse. He goes like this across the yard and to the main house, stepping clunkily up the steps and then planting himself resignedly on the porch chair. 

“Stop,” he stays sternly, glaring across the way at the open door, waiting for the long arms to pull it shut or to slide out, to pursue him. He waits and waits, wars ringing and breath shuttering between his clenched teeth. The lights in the Harris house are all off and he hears nothing from inside.

He rocks slowly back and forth, waits half an hour, and then a full hour, and then he stands. There is nothing in the guesthouse, and nothing in the main house, and nothing anywhere but his imagination. Only The House, not here. Safe now, he tells himself, and starts back across the yard, taking his time. 

Fists balled at his sides, Luke walks to the open door, stands at the threshold and peeks in. It is dark, still, though the heavy late-night black has lifted into something bluer. He breathes in and takes a step, wet feet pressing a mark on the wooden floor. He hesitates, listens for something, any sign of danger, and finds nothing. One, two, three and Luke steps fully into the guesthouse, looking around and towards the bed. Four, five, six, and Luke wipes his feet, crosses the room to the dresser, and takes out random clothes. On seven he shuts himself into the bathroom and starts up the shower. 

Pelted with warm water, Luke washes frenetically, ears straining against the shower’s blast for a rattling doorknob or stepping feet. He finishes, dries off and scrubs his teeth, looking anywhere but into the mirror. He doesn’t need to see his haggard face, tries to tuck it away so he can join his family without worrying them or drawing attention to his own paranoia, to his childish nightmares. 

He dresses in the bathroom with the door locked, sitting on the toilet seat while he pulls his shoes on, and then stands for too long with his fingers wrapped around the doorknob. Grinding his teeth, he pushes it open. The guesthouse is quiet, nothing moves. He looks around and then breaks into a sprint, bolting out and through the door, slamming it shut this time before rushing across the yard. He only stops when he opens the main house door, shaking himself out of panic and entering the house calmly, with a soft expression, trying to look tired instead of plagued. 

Luke follows the chattering into the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets and face readying a smile. 

“Wow,” Jayden says when he sees him. Luke pauses, then nods at the boy, shrugging his shoulder in an effort to project exhausted instead of tortured. 

Hearing her son, Shirley turns from her breakfast and jolts at the sight of Luke. Maybe he should have made himself look in the mirror this morning, or maybe he should have skipped breakfast and just gone on a walk so his strained appearance would have some sort of justification. 

“God, Luke,” Shirley says, putting down her fork. “Are you getting sick, again?” There’s a combination of concern and distaste on her face, and she’s probably imagining the whole family catching his bug. Understandable, he thinks, and presses his back to the wall. 

“Yeah,” he says, with another shrug. Kevin pushes his chair back and starts preparing another plate, smiling sympathetically. The plate, Luke knows, is for him, and he carefully takes a seat to the right of his sister, eyeing her for a reaction. She is still looking at him but doesn’t seem bothered by their proximity, instead she reaches out and presses the back of her hand to his forehead. 

“You don’t have a fever,” she hums, “but you’re clammy.” Her hand slides down his face, resting for a moment on his cheek before dropping. She still doesn’t look away from him, and he feels small and uncomfortable under the eyes of the whole family. 

“Thanks, Kev.” Luke turns from his sister and accepts the proffered plate, immediately digging into the sausage. Finally, after a moment of quiet and what he is certain is a wordless conversation between Shirley and Kevin, Allie flicks eggs at her brother and starts up and small brawl.

##### Day 393

Hutchinson’s is the only place where Luke’s chest doesn’t coil in pain, where the throb is just a slight pull. He sits with Nicolette and she is the only one who doesn’t look at him like he is a ticking time bomb.

##### Day 396

After work, Luke finds Theo sitting on the main house steps. She is in her business clothes, hair slicked back and makeup slightly smudged. There’s a coffee cup in her hands and she raises it in greeting. When he approaches, she looks him up and down and he shifts under her eyes, nervous about what she might find. 

“How’re you feeling?” Her tone is forced casual, and her smile is strained. Agitated. He swallows nervously and takes a seat beside her on the step, wringing his hands together and not trying to hide his own discomfort. _Oops, you caught me_. 

“Better.” Luke tries to make it sound like an apology but he should have known better than to expect Theo to let him off the hook like that. Theo is demanding. She avoids her own shit but needs to work through everyone else’s. She was like that long before she got her PhD, back when they were children and she just knew everything instinctually, each touch bringing new knowledge to her eyes. A trick he never really understood beyond knowing there was something amazing and _other_ about her. When he was a boy it awed him, that strange magic. His sister some sort of witch. Now he is afraid of it. Realizes the power of knowledge. A new light on her ability to make secrets futile. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her eyes are hard and very bright blue. He can’t maintain contact with them, flickers in and out, settles on her nose. It’s silly. She’s going to think he is hiding something or that he is mad at her or afraid of her. 

“It was no big deal.” Bad lie. If you go to the doctor for something it’s at least kind of a big deal. If Shirley bothered to tell Theo it was definitely at least a point of concern. 

Back when he was high, Luke was a great liar. Maybe that’s just because there was always something he pretty desperately needed, a clear goal to work towards and the sense that if he didn’t pull off the lie, he would just have to curl up and die. Now he can barely pull off basic excuses without his tone wavering and his eyes lighting up with warning signs. A hundred tells spilling over. 

“Shirley seemed to think it was.” Her tone has picked up a little steam and it’s clear that she isn’t just angry but hurt. She isn’t looking at him anymore but out at the road, glaring beams at the pavement. 

“Well, that’s Shirley.” It’s an excuse but the truth is he doesn’t have a good answer. There’s no good way to say that he simply hadn’t thought to tell her. Not because he has some weird axe to grind or because he doesn’t love her, but because it just hadn’t occurred to him at the time. Shirley and Steve are the worriers, the caretakers. They’re the ones he is supposed to go to with all the bullshit. And the Nell was always his confidant, his emotional support. Theo always just knew. He’s never had to tell her anything, and he never really thought she would care either way if he did. Luke never found any vulnerability to latch on to. Theo was hard, and Theo was a master at putting up walls. Fuck her for cutting herself off. Shame on him for never trying to push through. 

“I thought we were closer than that.” Theo snaps. And then the anger drains and she softens before his eyes, shoulders slumping. She sets her cup off to the side and yanks her hair out of its ponytail, shaking her fingers through the loose hair and letting it bounce around her shoulders. He doesn’t know what to say, or if he is even supposed to respond. 

They had been. A long time ago, they had been very close. He probably got along with her better than with their older siblings, second only ever to Nell. And she didn’t stand up for his and Nell’s belief but she didn’t bash them for it either. They didn’t always talk but he trusted her and he earned her trust in return. Secret keeper. Until he turned his back on all of them and threw it away. It surprises him that after all this time she thinks they didn’t change, not really. He doesn’t understand how or why. He wishes it were true. 

“ _Theo_ —” He starts, but she holds up a hand to interrupt. 

“I was wrong. That’s fine.” Theo rises to her feet, leaving the cup on the step and brushing off her pants. She looks to the guesthouse, shakes her head and says, “I miss the old place.” 

When she walks into the house, he doesn’t follow her. He’s done enough.

##### Days 398-399

The Crain children all have their quirks. This is not a secret, has been flashed to every horror loving home in the dark pages of Steve’s most popular book. Steve’s loss, Shirley with her dreams, Theo’s intuition, the twins and their ghosts, dad’s secrets. And newer, less public quirks too. Luke’s was supposed to be that he was a junkie. Not this. 

He wakes up, feet aching and cold. Hutchinson’s Used Books stands before him, tall and brick red, staring back at him with dark windows and silent judgement. He frowns, looks down at his feet. They are shoeless and dirty, skin feeling hot and loose at the bottoms in a way that promises blisters. He swallows. 

The sky is still dark, and only the streetlights allow him to see the town. He turns the way he came and stands still, looking down the empty street, wondering how he got here. Surely, he hadn’t walked. 

He takes a step forward and feels a shock at the sole of his right foot. He lifts it up, angling it and letting the side rest on the asphalt, balancing him. The skin there is rubbed off, leaving just raw, open pink and ooze. He blows air through his teeth and shuffles over, sits on the edge of the sidewalk to rest, to think this through, make it more manageable. 

His right foot is worse than the left, which is only slightly pink and sensitive. He hopes he can get home without making it worse, but is doubtful that he can maintain its current condition while walking barefoot. 

Eventually, he rises. He walks in the grass. It is cool and frosted over, almost soothing on his left foot, though it sends sharp pain up the right. He limps his way home, red faced and panting when he finally reaches the house. The door of the guest house is open and he groans, shutting it behind him and grabbing a pair of socks from his drawer, hooking his shoes in his index and middle finger and hurrying over to the main house. 

The door is unlocked and he can hear talking past the door. He opens it quietly, leaves his shoes at the doorway, and eases past the kitchen. He hurries to the first-floor restroom. The first aid kit is tucked under the sink along with a plunger, a box of tampons and extra toilet paper. He sits on the toilet, hefting his foot up and washing it in the sink with a rag. He bites his lip, picking gravel out of the open wound and peeling away loose, broken skin. He pours peroxide onto it, breathing deeply as it foams up. Rinses it one more time, and then pats it dry. He covers it up with two large Band-Aids and then pulls up his socks. 

He collects himself and limps to his sister’s office, quietly slips into a chair and waits for her to stop writing. 

“So.” Luke says, as nonchalantly as possible. Shirley hums, tapping her pen at the desk. Luke twirls his toothpick, spinning it between and over his fingers. “Something happened. Last night.” 

This stops her and she looks up from her work, frowning at him from across her desk. His heart flutters and he already regrets bringing it up, wishes he had just kept it to himself. No, he thinks, you need help. You need someone to listen. 

“What?” She prompts, leaning back in her chair. She is trying to be calm, but he understands her immediate concern. A lot can happen in a night, he’s proven that before. And now she is looking him up and down, studying his eyes. He hopes they aren’t bloodshot, hopes his weary face and twitchy hands aren’t sending the wrong message. 

“I sleepwalked.” He says with a shrug. Her eyebrows arch and Shirley shifts in her chair, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. Good, he thinks. 

“Ok. I don’t think… have you ever done that before?” She asks, face scrunching. It’s the same face she used to make when he came home smelling like booze, not really understanding but disapproving and concerned all the same. He isn’t sure if this is the reaction he wanted but he can’t really imagine a better one, under the circumstances. 

“No. Sleep stuff has always been your thing,” he tries for teasing, but his voice doesn’t really pick up the tone, leaves him sounding shaky. Damn. She huffs a laugh and nods, her eyes faded with a memory. He wonders which dream she’s thinking about, which time gasping awake in the middle of the night or waking them all up with her screams, calling for mom in the months following that summer. “Um. I went pretty far,” he says, eyes roaming to the framed pictures on her office wall. 

“Did you go… outside?” she asks, voice pinched. She is gripping the arms of her chair now, body tense and completely still. He hates that he is doing that to her but he doesn’t think it can really be helped. 

“I went to work,” he says gravely, finally meeting her eyes to press the gravity of this on her. _I walked all the way to work and didn’t wake up, I walked an hour away in the cold._

Her body seems to inflate and then collapse in front of him, folding up on itself as she shifts the seat a little further from her desk and slouches. 

“Shit,” is all she says, closing her eyes. “I don’t know what to do about that. Did you have the doors all locked when you went to sleep?” He nods, and she does too, mouth a firm line. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t matter if you locked yourself in then. Shit.” She stares just beyond his ear, resumes tapping her pen on the desk and thinks for a while, the two of them sitting in near silence. 

“It could be a one-time thing,” he tries, and she looks at him doubtfully. 

“Sure. It’s not like our family is cursed or anything,” she says it loudly, harshly. He doesn’t think she’s aiming to hurt and lets it slide away. 

“I could, uh…” but he doesn’t know what to do either, shuts his mouth and slouches to match her defeated look. They remain there for some time until Kevin knocks on the door, frowning when he walks in and sees them both frowning at each other across the desk, bodies slack and burdened. 

“You two alright?” He asks, and Shirley snorts, appreciatively taking the tea he offers her and squeezing his hand before releasing him and taking a sip. 

“Hmm,” Luke says, lifting his injured foot, “you know anything about sleepwalking?” Kevin frowns at the thick sock, as does Shirley, as if she just realized that sleepwalking doesn’t involve protective footwear, realizing that his venture has already proven dangerous, if only mildly. 

“My brother used to, actually,” Kevin says, looking between Shirley and Luke, confused, “So I know a little bit. Just a little.” 

“How’d you stop it?” 

“Oh, well,” Kevin looks uncomfortably between Shirley and Luke, then settles on Luke apologetically and says, “He stopped himself. Fell out the window one night and broke his leg. Hasn’t done it since, as far as I know.”

##### Day 400

Luke doesn’t realize there is anything or anyone in his path until he feels the impact and two loaded bags fall at his feet, tomatoes rolling out and the awful sound of crunching making him flinch. He immediately goes to his knees and starts gathering up the mess, frowning up at the woman with worried eyes. 

She has a sharp face, the corners of her mouth and eyes lined with fine wrinkles and her steel-colored hair shorn close to the scalp. He feels cowed under her beady-eyed glare. 

“I’m so sorry!” he says, looking down into the brown paper bag and picking out whatever he’s broken, herding the biscuits back in and trying to weigh out the damage. The bottom is soaked through with broth, a Styrofoam cup of soup cracked open in the tumble. 

“OH! Now, look what you’ve done!” The elderly woman only comes up to Luke’s ribs, but her fist carries a wallop when it comes across his back. She pummels on him for a few seconds, meeting the same spot several times, and then wrenches herself back with a huff. The entire time Luke remains still, staring at the sidewalk between his knees and wondering at how strangely a day could turn in just a matter of seconds. 

Luke can’t say it is entirely his fault when two bodies were involved, but he was also raised to respect elders, even when they don’t respect you. Plus, he really doesn’t want to get into it with a tiny elderly woman who he already body checked. And she hits pretty hard, truth be told, and he doesn’t enjoy getting the shit kicked out of him by anyone. 

“Hell!” She says with so much fervor that Luke suspects she is summoning the Devil himself and that at any moment the sidewalk will split at the seams and a fiery demon will pull out of the earth. He hopes he falls in and doesn’t have to deal with any more conflict beyond whatever they do in the fiery pit. 

“I really am sorry, ma’am,” Luke slowly looks up to meet her gaze again, offering up the sodden bag. She doesn’t take it and he sets it aside, rises to his feet. Her glare doesn’t weaken, even when he towers over her. “Here.” 

Luke reaches into his back pocket, producing his slip of a wallet, and empties it into his palm, a little embarrassed about his scant funds. The woman doesn’t seem comforted by his offer, her lips tightening into a hard line and her arms wrapping tightly around herself. Luke hesitates, then shakes his hand like maybe she just doesn’t understand what’s happening. 

“I’ll pay for it.” He says it slowly, raising his voice a tick in case she can’t hear him. Her lack of response makes him nervous. Maybe she’s afraid he’s going to grab her. A quick look around tells him that they’re the only ones around. He imagines placing the money on the ground between them and backing away, palms in the air, then bolting. One last time, he says, “Really, I’m sorry.” 

“I can’t accept that,” she snaps, and Luke wonders, briefly, if he looks so pitiable that she won’t let him make up for this. “I didn’t even pay for it.” 

And, honestly, the woman hits hard enough and has a fierce enough look about her that he can imagine her in the middle of a robbery, paper bag in one hand, gun in the other. He’s certainly willing to pass over his wallet, and probably, if she asked, his phone and shoes. 

Still, he says, “Huh?” 

“Leftovers from the office party.” She brushes her hands down the front of her pants and sniffs, pointing her face up and away from him, trying to look prim. Luke thinks back to the contents of the bag, all the Styrofoam containers and sandwich bags, and feels a little stupid. “Better than wasting it, I say. Practically had to box Aggie for the ham, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.” Her voice is still sharp, but thicker now. Catching in her throat. Luke feels his own breath hold in his chest and suddenly can’t look at her, scared he’s somehow caused embarrassment. 

“Well, I won’t pay for it, then.” He says quietly, clearing his throat and shoving his money back into his pocket, not bothering to tuck it back into his wallet. He looks over her shoulder down the road to Hutchinson’s, where he’s supposed to be starting his shift. “But it’d make me feel a lot better if you’d let me do something for you. Like a gift. An apology gift, you know?” 

The woman’s eyes lift up, slick green, and she gradually nods, leaning back into a less rigid stance. Her hands rest at her sides and she ticks up an interested brow, waiting for him to go on. 

“I work at the bookstore.” He points over her shoulder and she turns to look back at Hutchinson’s. When she turns back to face him, her stern mouth has peeled into a grin. 

“Good.” She says, and then turns sharply and starts walking, leaving her bags at his feet. He pauses, watching her go, and then scoops up the bags before trailing behind, giving her a wide berth. 

When they step into the bookstore, Nicolette calls out a welcome and he shoots her a danger look that prompts her to take a second look at the elderly woman. After a moment she looks back at Luke with a skeptical but accepting expression and goes back to reading. Luke puts the bags onto the counter and starts sorting through what is salvageable and transfers it into the dry bag, letting the woman browse. When he finishes, he crumbles up the wet bag and its ruined contents and shoves it all into a trashcan, then joins Nicolette behind the front desk. 

“What’s happening right now?” She asks without looking up from her book. Luke grabs a pencil and starts twisting it around his fingers, watching the woman shuffle through the aisles, her expression taut. 

“I owe her a book. Or a tchotchke. Or my body as a fresh vessel.” He murmurs, half-afraid the woman will somehow hear him across the store and will relaunch her attack. Nicolette snorts and shoots him a look before going back to her book, and they fall back into a somewhat comfortable silence while the woman shops. 

Eventually, the woman returns to the front with an older-looking, thin slip of a book. She sets it down on the counter with a stern look at Nicolette and Luke reads _Lorenzaccio_ on the cover. Sounds French or Italian to him. It seems like a very particular choice, not something that you just see and pick randomly. Something she might have wanted for a while. He doesn’t mind being the one to pay for it, suddenly. 

Nicolette scans the book, smiling with all her teeth, and then tells the woman the price. The woman makes a snarling noise that nearly sends Luke under the desk, and he catches a slight shift in Nicolette’s shoulders. She reminds him of a guy Theo brought around a few times when they were young who would sit on Aunt Janet’s couch and glare at Luke like he knew he was a sniveling shit and wouldn’t mind tossing him around a little. 

“Tell him,” the woman says, settling a hard eye on Luke and then huffing, apparently unimpressed. Luke fishes the money out of his pocket and hands it over, nodding at the woman and keeping his eyes on Nicolette the whole time, who raises a brow at his clear discomfort. 

“Alright, awesome.” Nicolette hands Luke his change and slips the book into a bag, handing it over to the woman with a smile that she has managed to maintain through the entire exchange, no slippage. 

The old woman looks the bag around her wrist and then looks once more at Luke, her expression softer now, says, “Good boy,” and then, thankfully, leaves. 

When the door falls shut, Nicolette turns on him like a viper. Her mouth is quirked mischievously and she leans in closer as if to share a secret. Luke automatically leans back, pulling in on himself and letting his chair roll a few inches away. She doesn’t seem to notice. 

“How’d you piss her off so bad?” She chuckles, watching out the window as the woman starts back down the sidewalk. Luke doesn’t follow her gaze. 

“Accidental collision.” Luke indicates the wet patch on his shirt where broth is slowly drying and Nicolette’s nose wrinkles in disgust. 

“She kick you?” 

“Uh, no. She’s more of a classic one-two punch kind of lady,” he says with a shrug, trying to brush the whole thing off and move along as quickly as possible. There’s something definitely shameful about putting any old person into a mood so bad they try to brain you. He gets that the elderly aren’t all one-dimensional grandparents but in his ideal world they don’t have such a wild temper. 

Nicolette makes a sympathetic face and leans back in her chair, gestures at his legs. “You’re limping.” 

“Right.” He eases his foot up onto the desk and removes his shoe and sock to reveal the damage, and then explains his new nighttime habit. Nicolette’s expression shifts from wowed to horrified. 

“You’re definitely cursed,” she says, and then starts gathering her things to go. Luke is inclined to agree.

##### Day 412

“Could you get Shirley? I need to talk to both of you about something.” 

Luke sighs. He already knows what they’re going to talk about and, frankly, doesn’t really want to be part of the conversation. If he had a problem with Steve writing another book, he would have said something months ago when Steve first mentioned it to him. Luke is the last person anyone needs to look to for approval. As the family leader of bad choices, Luke doesn’t really think he’s the guy to go to for much of anything at all. And he is definitely not qualified to pass judgement on anyone else. 

Still, he hunts around the main house for Shirley and finds her sitting at her desk. He makes sure she isn’t on a call and slips into the chair across from her, phone pressed to his chest. 

“Shirl? Steve wants to talk to us.” 

Shirley immediately looks serious. She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest like she’s preparing to negotiate a hostage situation. Luke places his phone on the desk and puts it on speaker, looking at Shirley when he says, “Alright, Steve.” 

So, Steve, voice tense and stilted with nerves, explains that he has written another book, this one fictional, and that he would really appreciate getting their blessing on it. 

“Steve.” Shirley groans. She is leaning forward with her elbows on the desk, nails twisting into her loose hair and pressing into her scalp. Luke tries not to stare at her, or down at the phone. Wishes he could float up through the ceiling and far away from this conversation. 

Truth be told, Luke doesn’t really know what this is. He doesn’t think it is the buildup to another betrayal, doesn’t think they need to be worried that Steve is going to slip more shameful family secrets into his fictional horror novel. Surely after everything Steve wouldn’t dare dredge it all up again. Not when things have finally started settling down between him and Shirley. 

The whole time Steve had been writing it, Luke had known. Maybe that just means that if Steve did step over the line again, Luke is somehow culpable too. Guilt through association. 

Of course, writing and publishing a fictional horror novel as a Crain is never going to be an entirely disconnected experience. Steve lived in a haunted house. Three of his family members died in that House, at least two being suicides. Steve owns the fucking House. Anything he writes is going to somehow be attached to what happened there, described sensations understood through experience, honest recollections of fear and confusion. Some his own, most secondhand. 

And readers aren’t going to be able to separate the two. Anything Steve writes is going to be compared and picked through. _Do you think this was inspired by…? I bet this comes from…._ That’s what happens when you put yourself in the public eye. Your story doesn’t completely belong to you anymore, you’ve given it away. It’s everyone’s story to do with what they please. 

So, yes. The horror novel can’t be entirely separated from _The Haunting of Hill House_ , nor can the Crains ever just be the Crains. They are all tied together, and that’s just the way it is. 

“What’s it about?” Shirley asks, and her face has gone flat like a smooth plane of glass, like a thin shield. 

“It’s fiction,” Steve says again, as if Shirley might not have understood the first few times, “about a girl named Lennie who takes care of her sick mother. And then after her mother dies and Lennie thinks she’s free, she winds up in a haunted house.” 

“That sounds good, Steve,” Luke eyes his sister when he finally speaks up, but she doesn’t meet his gaze, just stares at the phone. “I’d love to read it.”

##### Day 413

Steve emails a PDF of his book and Luke, feeling like he’s breaking some sort of terms and conditions of living in the Harris house, opens it up and starts to read.

##### Day 414

It’s already dark out when Luke starts across the yard to the guesthouse, and he is about halfway there before anything happens. 

“Help.” The voice is old and raspy, wavering like the single word is difficult to get out. Almost more a cough than purposeful speech. 

Low and croaky, like a long-closed door easing open, just loud enough to be heard across the lawn. Luke stops, plasters his eyes to the guesthouse door and waits. Hopes to be made a fool, hopes for silence. And then again, from the bushes. A drawn-out, quivering voice. Luke bites his lip and slowly turns to face the source of the noise. 

From where he stands, the bushes are empty. Anything hiding in there would have to be crouching or lying flat to the ground, pressed between the stems and the gate. The noise is nothing, not a voice, certainly. Just the distorted sound of rustling leaves or a car going by. 

“Help!” More insistent this time, impatient with his denial. 

Hesitating, Luke stands very still and says just loud enough for an old lady to hear, but not his nearby family, “Hello?” 

No response. Luke nearly deflates, starts inching his way back to the guesthouse, eyes still trained on the bushes and waiting for any cue to run. And then, louder than before and raw, a cry so sharp and scratchy that he can almost taste the blood himself, the woman yells, “Help!” 

He stops abruptly, turns again to face the voice. The voice remains seemingly source less, blasting through the windless night from nowhere. Luke groans and turns his head to look back at the main house, wonders if he can make it back before anything reaches him, if running means safety or abandoning someone in need. 

“I’m coming.” He wheezes. Swallowing convulsively, Luke shuffles over to the bushes, lifting his hands in a placating gesture, hoping that this will somehow ward off any attack. The bushes are still, and he imagines that whatever hides there can hear his heart clearly yammering in his chest, ricocheting between ribs and clamoring for escape. 

He reaches the bushes and bends to look in, pushing leaves aside and looking into the plunging darkness. He doesn’t find a crumbled woman, or even a crouching prankster. The bush is empty. Luke slowly pulls back, one step, two steps, wide eyes sticking, hands trembling. 

“Help!” The sound erupts from the bushes, several leaves shooting up as if thrashed forcefully. Luke clamps his jaw shut and stumbles back, one hand jerking to his chest in a claw. Something cold and hard presses into his neck, a finger. A finger. He whips around but finds no one there, hears a frenetic thrashing in the empty bushes and jerks into motion, running frantically forward until his outstretched hands bang against the guesthouse door. He scrambles with the doorknob for a moment, feeling the hairs on his neck rise as something stumbles up the steps behind him, and then wrenches the door open. He doesn’t look back, just launches himself into the house and slams the door behind him. He locks it and stares, waits for blue fingers to curl under the door, for that old voice to call for him.

##### Day 431

Luke looks down at his busted feet and says aloud, “You did it again.” 

He doesn’t know where he is, but the bottoms of his feet are dried to the pavement, sticking sickly as he peels them up with a hiss of pain. There are no street signs in clear view. A quick search of his pocket reveals no cell phone, no wallet. He hobbles off the road and lowers himself onto the sidewalk, setting his feet so the pads face out, heels planted on either side of the gutter. 

His back faces a row of houses, blue and white and very mild-mannered. One with toys in the yard, another with a white fence and a sign warning about a dog. The one in the middle has shutters instead of curtains, no fence but tall grass. A teal car pulled into the driveway and one light flicked on downstairs. In front of him sits a line of trees, thick enough that he has to squint to see what might be a second row of better-hidden houses. 

Luke got pretty far this time. 

An hour or so passes and the sun begins to rise. He watches the edge of the sky burst red then orange and pink, bright white emerging and bleaching the sky a hazy morning blue. Luke watches lazily, looks around for the faded moon and finds it partially behind a tree, peeking out at him like an impish pixie. He smiles back, resists the childish urge to wave. 

The thump of approaching feet doesn’t alarm him, and he tilts his head to see a jogger approaching to his right. The man is well built and lean, face framed by dark gray curls. Probably in his mid-fifties. He takes one hard look at Luke and stops, still shifting his legs to keep the muscles warm but not going anywhere, a pitying expression on his face that makes Luke’s stomach clench. 

Though, in fairness, he probably looks quite pitiable. 

“Morning.” Luke croaks, and then swallows self-consciously. The man pulls out his earbuds and finally stops kicking his legs, takes a step to the side so he is partially in front of Luke and easier to look up at. 

“You alright?” The man booms, then shakes his head as if his own volume surprised him. Luke offers a smile and a thumbs up, but the man is staring at his bloody feet, at his sweaty gray shirt and pajama bottoms and probably too-pale face. Luke hasn’t studied his feet yet, but he knows they must be ugly. Scabs scraped off time and again, burst blisters and calloused heel. All rubbed raw and seeping. Sure, this looks bad, and it is bad, but can we please move on. 

“Do you know where Hutchinson’s Bookstore is?” Luke asks, offering a smile instead of an explanation. The man blinks, sighs, and points over his shoulder, back the way he came. 

“Straight on.” He says, “but you’re gonna walk up the back of it.” 

“Thanks,” Luke says, pushing himself to his feet and biting off a groan. He works his jaw and blinks back the water collecting in his eyes, waves off the man and starts walking, praying that he doesn’t leave a red trail in his wake. He makes it all of ten feet before having to pause for breath, digging his fists into his stomach and leaning forward. 

The man follows, presses a hand over Luke’s shoulder. He steps around Luke carefully, watchful of his bare feet, and slouches to meet Luke’s eyes straight on. Luke might be able to forgive the pity for the kindness he finds there, the genuine concern for a stranger. It is embarrassing but oddly reassuring as well. Nothing like total agony to prove that mankind can be good. 

“Hey, I’m not comfortable leaving you like this.” The man’s eyes shoot down between them to their feet and Luke carefully doesn’t follow his gaze, doesn’t think it will help to see the mess he’s made. “Is there anyone you can call?” 

He pulls out a cellphone and holds it for Luke to take, and Luke only hesitates for a second before taking it gratefully and dialing Shirley’s number.

##### Day 432

Luke starts sleeping with shoes on.

##### Day 443

Theo shows up for lunch and Luke resolves himself to be honest. And forthright. 

“Shirley’s out,” he says, sliding off his boots and resting them against the wall. Theo keeps her heels on and they click across the hardwood floor, leaving him a trail to follow. She leads him to the kitchen where she has already located a loaf of bread and some leftover turkey and is rummaging around for cheese. 

“That’s alright,” she says, pulling out a baggy and kicking the fridge shut behind her. “You want a sandwich?” He has time before he has to go to work so he nods and she starts packing the ingredients together while he watches. 

“How’s work?” He asks. Theo shrugs noncommittedly and passes him a sandwich, then goes about making her own. The entire time her eyes keep flicking over to him, clearly concerned but holding herself back from asking. Luke waits until the silence starts to become something to speak up. 

“I guess I look like shit,” he finally says, and she snorts. “Hard to sleep lately.” 

He takes a bite of his sandwich and Theo does the same, watching him curiously while she chews. He knows that’s coming next and tries to build some sort of explanation that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous or insane. 

“Why’s that?” 

Swallowing, he tells her.

##### Day 454

“Leigh is pregnant,” Steve finally says, the words falling out of him in a relief, tumbling into Luke’s ears. Luke takes a moment to collect them closer and before he can make himself say something, Steve plows on, speaking excitedly. “I didn’t think- well, the process was, you know, and I just thought it would be a while. I mean, years. But it wasn’t really a… and they did this thing.” 

And then Steve stops and Luke can only blink, shifts uncomfortably in his chair and tries to untangle the rush of words that have been torpedoed at him. He doesn’t really understand everything that his brother just told him or what exactly he is referencing but he also doesn’t think he is actually supposed to understand it all. 

“Wow,” Luke says around a tightness in his throat. He tries to swallow it down but can’t, blinks hard and returns his gaze to the stars. He tries to remember how his body reacted all those years ago when he got the same news from Shirley for the first time but can’t conjure the memories. Probably numbness, confusion. 

“It’s good, right?” Steve asks, his voice more hushed now. The words are clipped with frailty. Luke’s brows furrow and he shakes himself, tucking his free hand into his underarm to protect it from the creeping chill. Steve doesn’t need Luke’s approval and his uncertainty confuses Luke. 

“Yeah, man.” Luke says, smiling. He can hear Steve release a breath, loose and stuttered between clenched teeth. “You’re a dad. A _dad_.” All Luke can think to say is the truth, the strange but wonderful truth. There is a rightness in Steve being a father. It just lines up. Makes complete sense. A steady man, a helper. Luke remembers when Steve would care for them as children, never treating the kids like burdens, always seeming pleased, as if it was exciting to be allowed along on his younger siblings’ games and not the other way around. 

And some things change, but others don’t. Even when Steve was distancing himself from the rest of them, running away from their stories and from that night, he would do what he could. Moments of pushback, of unwillingness, would part and Steve would be there, smiling softly and asking his high brother if he was okay, if he needed a place to crash. Seeing his escaped-from-rehab brother stalking out of his apartment in the dead of night with his belongings, and handing over cash. Luke can’t see how a man like that could be anything but a great dad. 

“ _God_ ,” Steve says, and he sounds out of breath. There is a noise that Luke interprets as the other man dropping back into his chair and it cracks his face into a smile. Luke shuts his eyes and lets the happiness ebb in, dipping over his shoulders and right through his spine. This is a moment to absorb. 

“A baby,” Luke responds, so quiet that he isn’t sure the phone will pick it up. And Leigh, amazing Leigh. There is no doubt that she will be a good mom, a strong and soft and loving mom. The pair of them. He can’t imagine a better team to raise a child, two people more capable of creating a good home. 

“A baby,” Steve repeats, and then laughs. The laugh is full and loud and it starts Luke laughing too, and the two of them go on like that until Shirley pokes her head out the door, one brow raised. 

“What’s going on?” She asks, the corners of her mouth edging up as she takes in her brother’s mirth. Luke stands from his seat and crosses to her, passes the phone into her hand and stands close as she presses it to her ear. She flashes Luke an amused look when she hears Steve cracking up on the other end, a chuckle starting in her chest. “What’s so funny?” 

Luke watches her face as Steve must deliver the news. Her eyes widen and then she relaxes, her eyes falling shut for a long moment like this was the news she needed all along, like she had been tensely waiting for this very call. Maybe she had, Luke doesn’t know. But he is glad to witness the moment of peace. 

“Oh, Steve,” she says, turning her body towards Luke. She pulls him into a hug and squeezes him hard with her free arm, pressing her face into his shoulder. He can distantly hear Steve talking. 

Eventually, Shirley eases out of the hug and takes his hand instead, guiding him back into the house and into her office. She puts the phone on speaker and they talk into the night, Steve asking questions only Shirley can answer, and Luke listening silently, his heart bursting.

##### Day 456

After a year, Luke goes to see Nell. 

The cemetery is cold, the sky above a slate gray and the grass wavering slightly in the wind. He steps around headstones, trying not to imagine what lies below, the many bodies he is walking over. His sister isn’t too far into the middle, her own plot closer to the road and not too closely flanked by neighbors. The stone is a plain gray slope, the soil over her now prickling with dull grass. Her death is just one among many. 

“Fuck,” he says to the ground, turning back to face the road. The car is parked some ways away but he can still see it, dark and still in the distance, like a faraway breach in the sky tearing open and swallowing air. Luke takes a step to it, then stops. Half turns back to his sister but doesn’t manage to fully face her. 

He bounces on his heels, breathing deeply. Nell has been dead a long time, and it’s okay. No denying that she is under there, weighed down by heavy soil that he and their family had helpfully tossed into the six-foot deep hole. And that’s fine. 

“Hi,” he says stiffly to the headstone of someone named Howard Milke, who doesn’t respond. Luke clears his throat and turns another inch so he can see Nell’s headstone in the corner of his eye. It also has not changed in response to his greeting. He supposes that is for the best. 

He is quiet for some time longer, not quite watching her headstone in his peripheral vision and occasionally stealing glimpses at passing cars. 

“I don’t really have anything to say,” Luke whispers, partly to himself and partly in apology to her. He should have prepared something, came up with a few topics before driving out here just to stand around staring at anything but what he showed up for in the first place. 

He starts back to the car, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and keeping his eyes on the ground. Before he can get far, however, he turns back to face her, eyes hovering just above so he doesn’t fully absorb the sight, can’t really see her marker. 

“I’ve been talking to Steve. He calls. Uh…” Luke shuffles forward, shaking his head at himself and lifting his hands in a shrug. “Yeah. Pretty weird. He just finished working on a book. Fiction this time.” 

Luke lets his eyes drop, as if the headstone is going to pull a face. It doesn’t but he stares all the same. 

“Good taste. Whoever chose…” He raises a hand and waves at the headstone, lifting his chin slightly and then angling his eyes away once more. He waits a few moments longer and then turns away, this time walking in earnest. “Okay, love you.” He calls over his shoulder, shaking one hand in the air and hurrying away, stomach clenching. 

And then there’s a sound. A shift, a groan. It stops him in his tracks and he stands impossibly still, entire body tensing, even his breath stopped. Nothing, nothing, nothing more. He listens hard, ticking his head to the side. Again, the itchy creak of a slow door, lifting up with some strain. 

Inch by inch, Luke turns to see behind himself only to find that the noise was not the aching push of a rusty coffin door rising after years of disuse, but the pained whine of a mutilated man pulling himself along the ground, felling grass in his path. 

Luke makes a noise deep in his throat but doesn’t flee, doesn’t move to help the hopeless figure. His mouth feels cottony and he can’t swallow, can’t draw in a full breath without it hitching, clicking in his own ears. His eyes follow the man’s trail as he approaches. Two arms, grimy and thin, lurch forward, digging into dirt and shakily pulling the body. Its head is canted to the side, eyes glassy and the color of seafoam, almost glowing in the odd light of autumn, and his mouth hangs slack, picking up and dragging leaves hooked in the gaps between rotten teeth. 

_It's not real_ , Luke tells himself. _It’s not there_. 

Heart stuttering in his chest, Luke forces himself to step off to the side, out of the man’s trajectory. He doesn’t dare speak, clenching his teeth against any further noise, hoping that it isn’t aware of his presence, that it being here is an odd coincidence entirely disconnected from him. Or, better, that there is nothing there at all but an idea that will pass. 

It stops. Its fingers rake contemplatively through the earth, and a purple tongue edges past dangling teeth, flickering through the surrounding grass before retreating back inside of him. Close now, Luke can hear odd catching noises in its chest, thin bursts of air shooting in or out of it in a silent rhythm, like a car engine cooling down. One of its hands twitches and begins to search to the left of it, adjusting until its hooked fingers bump Luke’s shoe and the palm turns, not quite grabbing him but _feeling_. 

Luke rasps and, unthinkingly, kicks out. The toe of his boot thumps into the things ribs and shoots through, pulling him off balance. He swivels and drops onto his ass with a grunt, sprawling beside and partly inside of the man, foot now caught in its chest. Against his ankle he feels the weak flutter of something he doesn’t try to identify, and with a yell he yanks back. The body pulls with him and he uses his other foot to edge it off, scrambling back as it gargles and snaps at him, clouded eyes observing how he writhes for escape. Luke crawls away and then turns, finding that the man has once more altered its course to follow him. Its entire side has crashed inward and a hunk of something plops out and is pulled along. 

“Don’t!” He bellows, rolling to his feet and breaking into a run, barely avoiding grave markers as he darts to the distant car. Luke only glances back once, not stopping when he finds the man gone.

##### Day 459

Halloween. 

Allie wanted to be a witch, which means a black velvet dress with striped stockings, a pointy hat, a broom, and sparkly makeup. Jayden wears a striped shirt, black pants, and a domino mask and goes as an escaped felon. Luke sits on the end of the couch and listens while Kevin and Shirley run through the rules with Jayden, tell him to stick with his friends and remind him when to be home. 

While Shirley and Kevin go through the rounds of pictures, Luke slips outside and watches as groups of kids and parents idle through the streets. Children dressed as monsters and heroes and fairytales, swinging their bags of loot as they trot along. The night is early enough that most of the families going by are parents with small children with strict bedtimes. 

The Harris family crowds out onto the porch and Shirley says her goodbyes and good lucks before sending them off and taking a seat next to Luke. Kevin holds Allie’s small hand in his own and holds the other out behind Jayden as if to guide him as they head out into the cool afternoon. 

“When did you start celebrating Halloween?” He asks because they never did as kids. The whole premise didn’t suite the family well. 

Shirley kicks the porch swing to-and-fro and thinks before saying, “I guess when Jayden got old enough. Kevin just sort of figured we would take him trick or treating and I went along with it.” She shrugs, then smiles at Luke and wraps one of her arms around him. She is warm and he leans into her, exhaling. “I didn’t want to take anything away from them because of my own misgivings.” 

_That’s nice_ , he thinks

##### Day 461

Rubbing the back of his neck, Luke plods across the dry lawn to the guesthouse and absently pushes open the door. There’s a sound. A low creaking, forward and back, repeated just around the other side of the door. Luke pauses, listens. It continues, apparently unburdened by his entrance. After a moment, Luke swallows convulsively and steps into the room, peaking over the edge of the door and then down at a young boy. 

He is pressing forward on his wheelchair before twisting it back, like he is struggling over a bump in the floor. Luke watches him do this for a second longer, brows furrowed. The boy doesn’t acknowledge his presence, doesn’t even twitch when Luke steps further into the room, dragging the opening in the door wider as he goes. 

There is a logical explanation, that’s for sure.

Luke steps in front of the boy, looking down at him and waiting for recognition of the awkward situation. Nothing. “Hi,” Luke eventually says, and finally the boy glances up at him, not looking particularly impressed, before returning to his work. This close, Luke can see that he isn’t stuck, but intentionally rolling himself forwards and back. 

Taking a backwards step closer to the door, Luke considers the boy and tries to round his age closer to Allie or Jayden, silently working out whose friend this is. That is the most reasonable reason for a child to be in the guesthouse. Maybe this is hide and seek gone wrong. 

Luke pointedly doesn’t think about the guesthouse not being wheelchair accessible, because certainly there has to be a good explanation for that as well and there is no reason to be freaked out by this kid, even if he is quiet and, frankly, dressed like it’s the forties. 

"Uh," he says, "are you... do you know... do you want to join your friends?" He scrabbles, gesturing, probably rudely, to the open door. 

Finally, the boy stops rolling. Luke takes another involuntary step back, bringing his hands together at his front, locking the fingers and trying to mimic a placating gesture he has seen Theo do in front of the kids sometimes. Making himself, tall and probably a little scroungy looking, as small and gentle as possible. 

The boy raises his head again, looks at the door, and seems confused. Luke smiles, also very confused and not sure what he’s supposed to do in this situation. This is a kid, he tells himself. A young boy. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“I used to get lost, too,” He tries, though he doesn’t know if his statement makes any sense within the context, but is desperate to say something. 

The boy exhales through his nose and starts toward the door. Luke steps to the side and then walks behind the chair, watching it go, go, go easily and then freeze at the threshold. It looks a bit like the boy hit some sort of obstacle and was brought to an abrupt and stiff stop. He doesn’t try again, sighs, turns the wheelchair around and starts towards the opposite wall. Stunned, Luke watches. 

“Okay,” Luke says, and then, again, “Okay.” He watches the kid wheel to the bookshelf, pause, and start towards the bed, expression bored and slightly frustrated. Giving up on understanding, Luke takes the final step out of the guesthouse with a murmured, “Be right back, bud,” and walks away without closing the door. 

He walks back across the yard and into the main house, motions stiff and awkward as he walks around and locates Kevin. Kevin, Luke knows, is very good with children and doesn’t seem like he has an awkward bone in his body. When Kevin is uncomfortable, he gets politer, more helpful. The exact opposite of Luke, who becomes rubbery and disjointed. 

“Back so soon?” Kevin says good naturedly, smiling from where he is draining water from the sink. Luke smiles back, approaching the counter silently. 

“Does one of the kids have a friend over?” He asks, trying to sound unconcerned. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just up and say _there’s a boy in the guesthouse and I don’t know why he’s there or how to get him out_ , but he’s learned with time to take steps with everything, to carefully search out everyone’s perspective and avoid outing himself. 

Because maybe, just maybe, there’s something going on here. Luke doesn’t want to speculate on what that might be but he’s not going to throw it out in the open for Kevin either. At least, not right off the bat. 

Kevin just looks confused and simply says, “Uh, no.” 

Luke nods, tries to look comfortable. He pushes down the rising discomfort, crushes it and tries to set it lower in his stomach, somewhere nonreactive. 

“Ah,” he says, drumming his fingers on the countertop. Kevin waits for an explanation and Luke turns to look out the window, gathering himself before saying, “Thought I saw someone. Must not have.” 

Kevin eyes him for a moment longer, then steps closer to the counter. Luke carefully doesn’t pull back, just smiles placidly and keeps beating his fingers in a staccato rhythm, a rushed version of some song he’d heard on the radio, something new he didn’t really know or recognize. Top forty pop hit both Allie and Shirley had enjoyed enough to sing along with that was stuck in his head. 

“In the yard?” Kevin asks, frowning out the window Luke has been staring at. Luke blinks, then nods the affirmative. Sure, close enough to the truth. He watches his brother-in-law step closer to the window, mouth quirked to the side. They both wait, as if the boy is going to roll past, somehow escaped from the guesthouse he mysteriously appeared in, and slowly make his leave. “Weird,” Kevin eventually says, stepping back. And Luke hmmm’s his response, pushing himself away from the counter with a shrug and heading out the door with a limp wave. 

Luke walks slowly and calmly across the yard and steps through the already open door. The noise is gone, and Luke bites his lip as he peeks in and finds that the boy has gone as well. Luke walks around the guesthouse, opening doors and glaring out the windows, ransacking his own place in search for the boy who isn’t, and perhaps was never, there. 

He sits on the edge of his bed and curses, staring at the new scrapes along the wooden floor, marking the boy’s path across the space but not revealing his exit.

##### Day 468

Steve calls two hours late, voice so slurred Luke can almost smell the booze through the phone. The first few attempts at conversation are gibberish that Luke, who has a somewhat practiced ear in translating those under the influence, is unable to understand. He asks his brother to repeat himself several times, pressing the phone closer to his ear as if that will help, before he is able to figure out what is going on. 

“How am I supposed to be better than that?” His voice is a long croak, strained and low enough that Luke would never guess that it is his brother if not for caller ID. He follows the question with a loud sniff and then an aching groan that almost stills Luke’s heart as he realizes that Steve must be crying. 

“What’s going on, Steve? Huh? You alright?” He tries to make his voice soft. Closes his eyes and thinks back to when he was young and _someone_ would wrap him in their arms and whisper solace in his ear. Nell, always gentle. What would she say? He scrambles for the right words and can only produce questions. 

“I can’t be him. I don’t know how.” 

Luke tries to remember the last time he heard his brother cry. Nell’s funeral, probably. And that had hardly been like this. He’d lost his footing, then, and spoken thoughtlessly, lost in his own head and stupid with loss. This is wrecked sobbing. Drunk wailing, unfiltered and desperate. 

“Who?” Is all he can think to ask, and Steve takes in a wavering breath and goes quiet for an uneasy amount of time before rushing out an answer. 

“I wanna be a good dad.” Steve almost shouts down the phone and Luke bears it, too shocked to pull back. He opens his mouth, starts and stops speaking, and then just shakes his head at the wall, all alone in the guesthouse and uncertain how he found himself in this position. 

Luke knows enough about empty comfort to not offer it. He also knows better than to say _no one is a good dad_. 

“You’re gonna do fine.” He forces himself to speak slowly. His tone drops low and languid, like something he used to hear in rehab when someone- sometimes Luke- would throw a fit and one of the employees or other residents would talk and talk and talk like none of it mattered at all, so certain that this would pass and the whole world would turn over again. An unspoken assurance that life will churn on and this moment will fall away, obsolete. 

“We had the best dad,” Steve hiccups, his voice muffled in such a way that Luke suspects he might have the phone resting closer to his neck that his mouth, and maybe he can’t even hear what Luke is saying, or doesn’t realize that anyone can hear him. 

Luke also doesn’t really know how to connect this sentence with the last, so he just hums and nods, says, “Yeah, yeah.” Because, yes, Hugh had been a pretty amazing father in the early days, or so Luke has been told. He also remembers hating him. 

“How can I be better than that? Huh?” Steve’s voice takes on an accusatory edge that tapers off into a whimper. It sets Luke’s teeth on edge. A horrible sound, like a pained animal. So strange coming from Steve that Luke almost doubts it’s his brother at all. 

“Is that a serious question?” Luke asks, not too worried that Steve will pick up on his exasperation. “All you have to do is stick around, be honest, check under the bed for monsters and exorcise your house,” and the noise Steve makes is a warbled cross between a laugh and a sob. 

“We were perfect,” Steve says wistfully, and Luke can’t help but roll his eyes. 

“No, we weren’t.” 

“You can’t even remember.” 

Luke can remember some things. Moving, stepping into unfamiliar houses and feeling like an adventurer braving alien territory. Not really having friends other than his siblings, not really having a home or anything that was just his. Mom and Dad all smiles, hugs and kisses. Promises of a new life and a forever home and rows of red flowers. Dazzling and smiling and distant-hazy Mom fading in and out of his memory. Bright eyed and knowing Dad, with strong and guiding hands. He can remember having a mom then not having a mom. Not understanding why if his mom is dead that means they can’t live with their dad. Sporadic visits and stony silence and confusion reorganizing into resentment. 

More than that, of course, he remembers Steve. Eager and loving, always wanting to help. To give. The ideal big brother, unashamed to play with his younger siblings and happy to look after them, to sit across from Luke in the old treehouse and ask what he was drawing, to hold his hand and promise that no matter what was happening it would be alright. Luke remembers being angry and shitty, taking and taking and taking and demanding more. And Steve, frustrated, offering the clothes off his back, offering his warm arms and holding his wretched little brother close, asking him if he’s cold. 

“You want me to tell you how to be a good dad, Steve?” Luke asks, his voice weightier than before. Something there must give Steve pause, and he doesn’t answer for some time. When he does, his _uh-huh_ is hushed, almost nervous. Like Luke somehow holds all the keys. “It’s the easiest thing in the world. I swear to God.” 

Steve laughs again, wetly, says, “C’mon.” 

“I’m serious. You’re gonna laugh that you didn’t think of it yourself.” Luke runs his hand over his face, hoists himself off of his bed and starts looking around for his shoes. He needs to get out of the house, to wear himself out before he will ever get to sleep. “Protect them,” he says, “and make sure they know how you feel.”

##### Day 470

A customer needs help finding something, makes conversation and follows Luke around the shop. The whole while, Luke twists and turns a toothpick between his fingers, directs it around his hand, oblivious to the tiny pricks as it pokes into his skin. He loses track of it, answering questions and trying to be human for just a short while. 

Pressure, pressure. 

They find the book and the man pats his arm, smiles his thanks and doesn’t take notice of the digging, doesn’t care beyond Luke scanning his book and accepting his money, waving and bidding him a nice day as he leaves. 

Luke watches the door swing shut and blinks a warm tear down his face. He frowns at himself and brings one hand up to wipe it away but catches himself. Stops and stares at his palm, at the tiny red pinpricks scattered up the skin and, at the center of it all between blue veins and delicate bones, a dark and jagged hole. Blood seeps out, churning up in a dark bead that quivers and then pools down in a slow line, over the curve of his hand and dripping to the floor, to his jeans, over the toe of his boot. 

He raises his other hand and finds the fingers pinched around a splintered and bloody toothpick. Glancing around, Luke pockets the toothpick and balls his gouged hand into a fist, cupping the guilty hand under to catch the drippings, and rushes to the bathroom. He turns on the faucet with his elbow and holds both hands under the water, watching the blood spread out orange before washing away.

##### Day 474

Early in the morning, Luke returns to the park. He sneaks deliberately now, each step placed carefully, eyes wide in the dark. He listens for other people, wonders if he might see someone on a similar mission just behind a tree, searching out their own special balm. It’s just him, though, and when he breaches the trees and steps out into the clearing, looking both ways over the stretch of grass, he finds himself alone still. 

He waits for some time, wondering if the man will show up and take his place, or if maybe he noticed Luke’s strange creeping and took off. He might have changed his spot, or even been caught in the time since Luke’s last visit. After a while, Luke moves across the field and slides down onto the bench. 

He stretches his long legs out, resting his heels in the grass, and wraps his arms around himself, staring out at the length of trees, a loose, almost protective circle gathered around him. Animals chirp and chatter where he can’t see, and the whole night is broken into the wavering songs of cicadas and crickets. Luke could close his eyes and sleep here, leaning back against the bench, his face turned up at what little there is to see of the stars. 

Before him, far off in the tree line, is the crackle snap of someone stumbling around. Luke snaps out of his dozing and sits straighter, hands easing out of his pockets and feet pulling in closer, flat on the ground and ready to move. His chest seizes and he stares intently in the direction of the sound, as if he can part the trees himself and banish whatever hides there. 

The sight of the woman is almost comforting. There is no dull glow about her, and she is dirty and unwell, but not entirely corpse-like. 

She is wiry. Her hair is long and oil-slick, her skin picked apart around her mouth and chin, scraggly hands bruised and bloody. Familiar marks. Seeing her like this, slowly moving closer to him in the darkness, eyes distant and mouth half open, is not scary. He almost knows her, practically slept beside her and many others alike over the years. That look she carries, the ugly hunch of her shoulders and those grasping hands. He knows she is only _hungry_. A hunger so close to his own that he knows it, feels it right along beside her and thinks he could reach out and take it from her, meld it with his own, absorb it and take it over like a cold house breached with heady warmth. 

She walks towards him sloppily, dragging her feet through the field as he waits. Horror movie slow, arms swinging at her sides like she isn’t entirely aware that they are hers, that she is supposed to be controlling them. Her hips sway lazily, jutting slightly with each hard step. Her weight is not her own, and she doesn’t know how to carry it, so used to simply gliding. He knows, he knows. 

When she finally reaches him, her shins hit the bench and he thinks for a moment that she will fall over him and he will have to either push her away or accept her. Neither option is a good one, and he is saved from having to choose when she sticks out her arm and supports herself, carefully swaying back and regaining her balance, very briefly grazing her fingers along his arm as she catches herself. 

Her breath rackets in and out of her mouth, and he watches strips of rib heave under her the skin of her chest, can count the rivets there and watch them shiver. Her arms and legs are so thin that her hands and feet look huge in comparison, and, this close he can see the gathering of bursting little dots all around her inner arms, traveling around the veins, kissing here and there along her legs. He has a matching set over his own body, tiny pinprick scars that might never fully vanish, that might settle in and remain as a permanent reminder of what he chose to be, a clear sign of his own method and source of oblivion. 

And he can smell her now. An old, worn smell. Layers of sweat piled over sharp piss and whatever dumpster she slept against, whatever basement she hid in. He automatically leans away, breathing between his teeth and trying to reacquaint himself with what used to be familiar, what used to be him. 

They watch each other, so close now. 

She reaches into her inner coat pocket and his heart stutters, stomach clenching in anticipation and then sinking when she produces a handful of crumpled money instead of a gun. She works at each bill individually, smiling dully as she silently smooths them out between her hands, working out the wrinkles. When she finds it satisfactorily repaired, she holds the money out to him, a few inches too close to his face. 

His exhale whistles between his teeth and he looks up from the money and at her face. Maybe she doesn’t really see him, can’t tell that he isn’t the man she normally finds sitting here. Or maybe she just can’t fathom that anyone else would be sitting alone in the park at this hour, earlier than the sun. 

Gently as he can, Luke sets the flat of his hand against her wrist and guides the money back to her, then puts his hand palm down on his own thigh and waits for her to process what is happening. 

“Hey!” She says, like he is walking away from her and she has to hurry before he’s gone, a tint of frustration dipped just under. She shoves the money at him again, this time pressing it to his chest and digging her knuckles in hard so he can’t force her back again. He clenches his teeth at the pressure and puts his hands in the air in supplication. 

“I’m clean!” He shouts, voice much louder than he expected. The woman doesn’t balk at this as perhaps she should, and she shifts her weight to the other leg, apparently tired, and continues to press into his chest with her full weight. Luke wraps his hand around her tiny wrist, feeling suddenly certain that if he wanted to, he could easily twister her arm and snap each brittle bone. Instead, he pushes back at her until she stumbles a step back, her fist snapping open as she trips and the money falling around her in the grass. 

Her scream is terrible, high and yowling like a cat. Drawn out and haunted in the dark, the scream sends a thrill up Luke’s spine and pulls himself over the back of the bench, long legs shooting out and catching him on the other side. He doesn’t run, but grips the back of the bench that is now between him and the woman and looks over it at her. 

She has collected her money and is shoving it into her pockets, eyes wet with tears and her lip trembling as she continues to wait. It’s a horrible thing to watch and recognize yourself in. She rolls onto her hip and shakily gets to her feet, eyes darting around as if lost. Finally, she finds him, baring her teeth in an animalistic growl that sends him a few steps back. 

“Sorry,” he whispers so quietly he is certain she won’t hear it, doesn’t think it would matter if she could. She blinks at him once, twice, and then throws herself forward, hefting one leg onto the seat of the bench and, with sudden energy, vaulting over at him. 

Luke lets out a strangled cry and lifts his hands up as if to catch her. Her nails come down at his throat and he falls back, head snapping against the roots of a tree. She makes a choking sound as she drapes over him, her forehead cracking on his collarbone hard enough that Luke opens his mouth to cry out but can only release a dull click, like a beetle turned over on its shell. 

The woman’s fingers curl around his throat and he feels eight little crescents bore into the flesh, latching on either side of his vertebrae. Her thumbs dig into his throat, pressing down so hard he waits for the snap, feels like he has swallowed them. His mouth gasps open and he tries to swallow air, regains himself and bring his own hands up, one wrapping around her wrist and the other pushing back on her chin, snapping it up so her eyes are directed to the sky. 

Numbly, he is aware of his legs, one curled up so his knee almost supports his attacker’s back, the other pressed out and scraping a channel into the dirt. The woman straddles him, presses her weight forward and down onto his neck, squeezing with all her worth, while he thrashes against her and beats the heel of his hand against her jaw. 

Fear burning up his stomach, Luke tenses and sends his hand up one last time, feels her head whip to the side as she gurgles and twists off of him, falling over and crawling away. He watches her gather herself and look back at him one last time before hauling to her feet and beating away, so quietly he might have imagined her. He remains there for some time, hands trembling and weak at his sides and his dry eyes staring up at the treetops. 

 

~*~

 

He is left with purple bruises around his neck and under his left collar bone. When he twists a certain way in the mirror, he can catch a glimpse of the raw skin and the two columns of half-moon cuts. His voice is hoarse and he spits pink into the sink. There is no hiding his adventure. 

Before Shirley can find out on her own, Luke tracks her in the kitchen and pulls at his collar, lets her turn him this way and that, lets her trail her soft hands over the back of his neck. Her eyes are wide the whole time, her mouth open and silent, making shapes in the wake of unspoken shock. 

“What happened?” She finally asks, a hand on each of his shoulders. He licks his lips and omits. 

“I was taking a break,” he says, “and this woman thought I was a dealer. Got pissed when I didn’t have anything for her and wailed on me a little.” He shrugs, and Shirley drops her hands down to her sides as if he was pushing her away. She stares at the dark blotches, a furrow appearing between her brows. He wishes he could just tell her everything, warn her that he was still the same, still just Luke. 

“Take a different route tomorrow,” she says in the same tone she uses when she tells her son to come straight home after school. Luke wonders sometimes if that fear doesn’t come from him, from years of him _not_ coming right home and slipping into Aunt Janet’s house after curfew, hands trembling and eyes too bright, unable to communicate in any understandable way. 

“Definitely,” he promises, then coughs.

##### Day 481

Work stops helping. Luke feels a pit forming in his stomach, the routine no longer bringing comfort, no longer easing that sharp pain in his chest. _Further_ , he thinks, understanding in some small way but adamantly pushing it back. 

He goes to work feeling shitty, snaps and cranks around, snarls at Nicolette like she deserves it and gnashes his teeth at the customers.

##### Day 487

Thanksgiving brings new surprises. Over dinner, Theo clears her throat obnoxiously loud and smiles patiently while Shirley makes a face at her, Steve rolls his eyes and Luke tries to hold back a laugh. When she has everyone’s attention, she slides her hand over her wine glass and lets it rest, palm down, over the brim. 

There is a pause. Luke doesn’t understand what is happening until Shirley lets out a high gasp and leans forward, one hand springing out and clasping around Theo’s, pulling the fingers closer to her face. Steve blinks, furrows his brows and rises slightly in his chair, trying to see whatever has Shirley so excited, and then his mouth streams into a pleased grin and he looks at Luke, who frowns and leans into his sisters’ space until he finally sees. 

The ring is a simple, silver band, looped around Theo’s finger like a strip of the moon. Trish’s is more ornate, the same silver twining around itself like small vines grabbing hold of her. He tries to imagine how this happened; would Trish be romantic, would she take Theo to a nice dinner, walk with her hand in hand and then drop to one knee, smiling up at her while she asks the question? Would Theo cry and yell and gather Trish in her arms, saying _of course, of course_? He can’t really see it happening like that, reconsiders. Dinners at home after long work hours, tired smiles as they eat and share their days. Lazy whispers on the couch, a book, the television, someone clicking away on a laptop. Maybe someone says _let’s do this forever_ and the other flicks up a pleased smile, a mischievous glint in her eye, and says _let’s get married_ and it was just that simple. 

Luke imagines sometimes forever is obvious. He hasn’t had a love like that before, but he’s certain that sometimes a person just knows, that love is something that can sit gently between two people, looping around their arms and pulling them tightly. Not special, not supernatural. Holy or unholy. Certainly, some people just find each other and know that that’s that. 

Across the table, Leigh knots her hand with Steve’s and he turns to smile at her with so much love in his eyes that Luke has to look away, refocuses on his plate of food. Everyone is going through their congratulations and Shirley is asking how they want to do it, if they’ve started talking about dates and dresses and locations and Theo snorts like these are ridiculous questions but Trish beams with all of her teeth and starts answering, starting on colors and food and themes. Classic ceremony, she says, and white dresses and a photographer capturing every minute. 

Luke doesn’t really know how this all goes, has only been to a wedding or two when he was too young to be the shame of the family and not quite angry enough yet to hide away. He hadn’t been to Nellie’s wedding, really, and he had only been somewhat aware of being at Shirley’s. And Steve and Leigh had just gone down to the courthouse and a nice restaurant afterwards. He’s seen the picture before, taken by a nice stranger and now up on the mantle at their house. Both of them slightly delirious with joy and excitement, her hair down around her shoulders and his shirt buttoned up just a little too high, their smiles both tearing across their faces like old scars.

##### Day 490

Over breakfast, Luke realizes that he is the only one standing still. 

He’s frozen. Living in his sister’s guesthouse far beyond how long he originally intended, helping around the house, the funeral home, and taking a few shifts at the bookstore. Walking to work, walking home. Dinner, reading, sleeping. Calls with Steve on Saturdays. Starting it all over every single day. He’s surviving.

##### Day 491

He’s a little nervous to return to work after making an ass of himself before, but he grits his teeth and heads in, carefully peaking around the corner at the front desk and finding Nicolette, not looking at him and turning through the pages on a book, skimming for something. Luke approaches slowly, tucking his hands into his pockets. When he gets to the desk, Nicolette smiles briefly then returns to her book, and Luke feels a tug in his stomach. 

“Hey,” he says awkwardly, resting his hip on the desk, uncertain if he is welcome to sit beside her. 

“Morning.” She finds whatever she is looking for and scribbles something down on a sticky note then settles in into the crease before dropping the book shut and looking up at him. She takes notice of his uncomfortable posture, his weight on the desk, and pulls a face. “Sit down, Luke.” 

He does. Then he nervously clasps his hands before him and leans forward, trying to keep eye contact, to project sincerity. 

“Look, Nic. I was a jerk before, and I’m really sorry. I was in a shitty mood and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You deserve a lot better than that.” He’s being genuine, but can’t help but think back on past apologies. Trembling hands and wandering eyes, promises to change- _I really want to get better this time_ \- and desperate pleas for forgiveness he never really deserved and certainly didn’t earn. This is different. It must be. 

Nicolette assesses him for a moment before letting an easy smile pull across her face. She reaches for him and he lets her slide her hand down his arm, shocked at its warmth when she lets her fingers wrap around his. He carefully turns his hand over, afraid his movement will send the wrong message and she’ll pull back. But she is still, and smiles more warmly when he twines their fingers together. 

“Sorry,” he says again, and Nicolette nods. _It’s alright_. 

“I’m here if you want to talk. About anything.” Luke doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so warm in his entire life. From the smile lines around her eyes to the track where their hands meet and the side of her knee that she taps against his. Bursts of sunlight, shocking enough to almost bowl him over. And so nice, so good. Amazing to stand under her power and feel it very nearly sneak under his skin and warm him too. Basking, baking. 

His hand in hers, he thinks maybe he can tell her the truth. All of it. He believes that she will forgive his insanity, his mad fantasies. He thinks she might accept them. Maybe even believe him. Luke can’t remember the last time he felt this way with anyone but Nell. 

So, he does. 

He tells her about The House and she nods, says that she read Steve’s book back in college. Of course, of course. Who hasn’t? He says, “Sure, but it’s all true.” 

And she says, “Well, yeah.” And makes a face like it is the most obvious thing in the world, like he just tried to tell her that gravity is a thing and she’s offended he thinks she needs that affirmed. It’s a little jarring and he lays his hand flat on the table, leans in closer than necessary. 

“All of it. Even the- you know. The—” He can’t quite make himself say it after all this time, not to someone so far out of the loop. She saves him from having to. 

“The ghosts. I know, Luke.” Her tone has dropped and she is leaning in too, her dark eyes revealing lines of gold rolling around her pupil. His heart stutters and he doesn’t really remember how to breath for a second. Nicolette’s voice is hushed, not with shame but out of courtesy. Like he’s telling her a secret and she will keep it private for him. Like they’re sharing this. 

He feels, stupidly, that he could tell her anything in this moment. He doesn’t think he’s ever been met with such unconcerned acceptance in his entire life. At this moment, he could say that he killed a man and still has his corpse in a barrel behind the house and she would just nod and say _we should burn it, let’s go burn it tonight_. 

Head buzzing, he blinks at her and says, “You do?” 

It’s not that he’s never met anyone who believes in ghosts. A lot of people do. Especially anyone who would want to broach the topic with Luke Crain, because skeptics don’t generally hunt down someone whose mother might have killed herself because of a haunted house but died horribly regardless just to interrogate them or let them know how foolish they are. It’s out there, but it doesn’t really get pushed in his face. No, it’s the believers who want to talk, want interviews and pictures and _just a minute of your time_ and _you’ll get paid for it_ and _don’t you want a chance to tell your side of the story_. 

But he hasn’t ever really been the one to tell his story, not since he was a confused kid talking to his older siblings, holding his twin’s hand and just trying to pool all their experiences together to come up with some sort of truth, to work out just what happened in that house and where Mom and Dad went, exactly. And when he has tried to talk about it, he usually gets shut down or the listener gets that look in their eye, that slight squint of pity and concern because grown men aren’t supposed to think this way and big boys can tell what’s real from what isn’t. Nicolette just shrugs and says _Well, yeah_ , as if it’s that simple. There are ghosts, point blank. No question. 

Nicolette shrugs, flashing a smile. “My dad was really into the supernatural. And my cousins had a Ouija board we played with a few times. Weird shit would happen. So sure, I believe in ghosts.” 

Luke shakes his head and returns her smile, running his free hand over his face. “Well,” he says, feeling her hand burn in his and feeling inexplicably stupid and brave being here with her, being so exposed. “Do you still have a Ouija board?” 

“Probably tucked away somewhere.” She pulls at his arm playfully before releasing him. Her eyes stay on him, though, one brow arched.

##### Day 505

“Are you sick?” 

Jayden is sitting across the kitchen table from Luke. He has his homework spread out in front of him and has been working quietly while Luke lazily sketches and thinks about nothing and everything. His question breaks the steady silence and it takes Luke a beat too long to process what he even said. 

Luke doesn’t really know where the question came from. There’s probably a lot of evidence, but he can’t be sure what the kid does and doesn’t know, or what he is aware of that he isn’t supposed to be. In all this time, Luke and Shirley have never really hashed out what she has told the kids and that hasn’t changed with time. Maybe it’s his job to ask. He’s never been sure how to be a caretaker. 

And the question is hardly without a source. Trips to the doctor and being pretty much absent through most of the kids’ lives up until now, maybe they have no idea what that’s about. He has always assumed that Shirley would tell the kids something like _That’s your Uncle Luke. He’s made some bad choices that make him sick. If he shows up and we aren’t home, don’t open the door_. Maybe when he moved in, she said he was better, and now he looks like shit and the kids are starting to worry that he’s making bad choices again, whatever they think that means. 

Plus, he does look pretty rough. Haggard. Clean, but not necessarily well maintained. His face is bristly with the beginnings of a beard and his eyes are underlined with dark, tired smudges. He moves slowly, achingly. Every so often his breath hitches and he reaches involuntarily for his chest, clamping his jaw shut against the pain. So, yes. He probably looks very sick. Technically, he might be sick, though he isn’t sure that’s how he would define his current afflictions. 

“No,” Luke says anyway, furrowing his brows and setting his notebook aside. Jayden purses his lips in the same way he does when Shirley lays down the law or Kevin points at him with a fatherly finger and a warning. Luke doesn’t know how to combat that expression so he just stares back as steadily as he can. “What would make you think that?” 

It feels sort of wrong to tell a kid that he isn’t seeing something that he actually is almost certainly seeing, but Luke tries not to think about that.

Jayden inhales and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and seeing that makes Luke want to move too, but he is very carefully still. Jayden looks down at his math book and traces over the numbers with his thumb, as if silently working through the problems as he speaks. “I had this teacher once who was really old and he started to turn purple and gray. We thought it was weird but… and then he stopped coming to school and there was an assembly. The principal said that he died because he had been sick for a really long time.” Jayden risks a look up at Luke, eyes dark, and finishes, “I just thought you looked a little like him.” 

Luke swallows. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that. If Shirley was here, she might tell Jayden that he was being rude, or she would laugh and roll her eyes because kids are just shitty sometimes. But Jayden is scared, and he probably doesn’t know how to express his worry without simply saying _you look like my dead teacher and it freaks me out_ and Luke doesn’t really think he’s supposed to oppress that. He doesn’t want to take part in teaching a kid to bottle their feelings up. 

Instead, he says, “Ah. I guess I’ve just been tired lately. But I’m not old, and I’m not sick. It’s gonna be alright, so don’t worry about me.” 

Jayden considers him for a moment, eyes sharp, and then nods. He goes back to his homework and Luke pulls his notebook back and forces himself to draw.

##### Day 512

Airports are horrible, but Luke’s nerves are almost entirely suppressed by his excitement to see Steve face to face again and to see Leigh after all this time, himself in a more suitable condition and her in a happier state. After all, he had always liked Leigh. She had been kind to him until she couldn’t be, and had been accepting without taking his bullshit. Smart and all together good. Luke had always been pleased that she had chosen Steve, who had desperately needed a partner who could arch one brow and tell him to get over himself without any real bite. Someone who made him think and made him laugh. 

They pull into a parking spot and wait. Shirley keeps checking her mirror even though Steve said he would text after they get their bags and are heading for the door. Luke just closes his eyes and leans back, listening for her phone to chime and pretending not to care. 

Her phone does eventually rattle in the cupholder, and both of them jump a little. She checks the message and then waves her phone at him, simply says, “About ten minutes,” and then relaxes back into her chair, keeping her phone out and scrolling through something, apparently much more relaxed. Luke wonders if she always thinks the plane will crash. 

It takes a little more than ten minutes for a light tap to sound against the back of the car, and Luke turns in his seat to see Steve waving through the back windshield and patting his palm against the trunk again. Shirley pops it and Steve makes a pleased noise and gives the thumbs up. The backseat pulls open and Leigh pops her head in, smiling softly and sliding into the seat. 

“Hey, Leigh,” Shirley says, reaching an arm back to hold the other woman’s arm. 

“Hi,” Leigh says, her smile widening. Luke listens while they catch up and watches Steve close the trunk and walk around to the other door and slide into the backseat, bumping shoulders with his wife and smiling at his siblings. 

The car ride isn’t too long, but they take the time to catch up and complain about the cold. Luke keeps his eyes forward, listening and laughing when appropriate, basking in the pleasantness of having them here and being so close. Near the end of the ride, he feels his brother reach forward through the headrest slot and brush his fingers through what is becoming too-long hair. 

“You want me to cut this?” Steve asks, and the question just feels so odd that Luke does turn in his seat and stare at him. 

“What?” He asks, squinting. He eyes his brother’s hair, neat and styled, and tries to imagine that he did that on his own, or that his brother had any idea what to do with a pair of scissors or a razor. Seeing his skepticism, Steve makes a face, feigning insult. 

“I can cut your hair for you, if you want.” His tone is less serious now and he is grinning, but Luke suspects that the offer is very real and that if he asked Steve would happily oblige him. And maybe it would be a good idea. It’s not like Luke really cares how he looks at this point and his hair is starting to grow past the point of comfort. 

He flicks his eyes over to Leigh, as if she is going to tell him the right answer, be that with an encouraging smile or a warning glance. She only offers an amused shrug, then turns to look at Steve and mess his hair up with her long nails. 

“If you’re scared to let Steve do it,” Shirley starts, looking up at the rearview mirror at her older brother, one brow raised, “I can. I used to cut Kevin’s hair.” 

Luke blinks. “Jesus, my hair must look pretty bad to have you all clamoring to chop it off.” He is glaring but his tone is light, and Steve snorts and waves his hand in the air like an overturned boat bobbing with the waves. _Eh, maybe a little_. This makes Luke laugh, and the noise is strange, rusted. Like he hasn’t laughed in so long that his chest has settled and hardened in place. 

“I really will cut it. I won’t even charge you.” Steve is full-on laughing now, making his words pleasantly choppy as his breath hitches. From the corner of his eye, Luke can see Shirley fighting off a smile, biting her lip against her own bout of laughter. 

“No, I think I’ll just let it go. We can all get used to it together.” Luke says, then slides back into his seat with a smile so wide it almost hurts.

##### Day 514

Christmas rolls around quickly, and Luke isn’t sure he’ll be able to get himself out of bed. He wakes up to throbbing pain and a dizzying lightness in his head that almost sends him reeling several times as he rises to a sitting position and gradually lowers his feet to the floor. 

He walks to the bathroom, a palm pressed to the wall and furniture for support as he shuffles along, and then spends most of his shower sitting on the floor, letting the hot water roll over him as he nods off. The water seems to drain away some of the fog left in his head and he eventually manages to suds up and clean himself, then to get dressed and brush his teeth. 

When Luke makes it over to the main house, Steve is already cooking and the rest of the family has gathered in the living room. He sits down next to Shirley, who hooks her arms over his shoulders and discretely presses the back of her hand to his cheek, trying to gauge his temperature. 

The day happens around him, and Luke feels slightly absent through most of the proceedings. Stockings are opened, but presents are left under the tree. He sips at the coffee Kevin hands over to him and smiles and nods through conversations he is only partially aware of. He can’t completely shake this weight to connect to the present, can only hope that no one really notices his odd behavior. 

Theo and Trish arrive around three in the afternoon and presents are opened. Packages are placed in Luke’s lap and he reads the tags, smiles at whoever they’re from and opens the gifts, thanks the giver. He knows he likes what he is given, and is grateful. He just can’t manage to dirge up any palpable expression to show that he is pleased. 

Dinner is set at the table and everyone takes their seat, smiling and humming at the warm food. They thank Steve and Shirley for making dinner and Luke nods along, wondering how that must have gone, Shirley and Steve working together in the kitchen without biting each other’s heads off. Might have been funny, might have been uncomfortable. He kind of regrets not being there to see for himself. 

Halfway through the meal, Steve and Leigh share a meaningful glance and Steve smiles so brightly that Luke is almost pulled out of his fugue right then, pauses with his fork halfway between his mouth and the plate and waits to see where this goes. Leigh pats Steve’s hand, silently passing him the baton. 

“We have an announcement,” Steve says, still looking at his wife with the kind of adoration that is just enough to make onlookers slightly uncomfortable. Steve licks his lips and then looks up at his family, making sure that they are listening. Shirley blinks and then a warm smile pools across her face and she looks at Luke knowingly. It takes Luke a second to register that he already knows what is happening. Steve’s eyes land on Theo and his mouth twitches into a giddy grin when he says, “We’re having a baby.” 

The table erupts with excitement and hands reach forward across the table, seemingly needing to touch both Steve and Leigh, as if some sort of physical connection is needed with this kind of revelation. Even Allie and Jayden look slightly awed and Luke smiles, relieved that he already knew and doesn’t have to feign any reaction at the moment. 

Of course, Luke doesn’t have the kind of luck that keeps secrets. He is smiling at Steve and Leigh, listening to Leigh talk about what she plans to do with the nursery and how they’ve talked just a little about names but they haven’t found anything that sounds just right yet, and god, yes, she is so excited and happy to be a mother. All very nice. The kind of conversation that one can simply listen to, one that he definitely doesn’t have a leg in and therefore doesn’t need to contribute to. 

There’s movement beside him. It’s so slight that he barely takes notice, just registers that Theo is doing something to his right, and he keeps his lacking focus on what Leigh is saying. Then the movement is larger, shifting towards him and he tips his head towards it, frowning. 

Luke jerks back in his seat, making a noise as he reels to his left and nearly falls into the empty space there. Theo pauses and retracts her hand, clearly confused by his retreat. A few sets of eyes around the table flicker over to them, but don’t settle, returning their focus on Leigh and Steve. But Theo frowns at him, concern knitting between her brows, her bare hand twitching in her lap. And Luke’s heart hammers in his chest. His eyes are wide and he can’t stop looking at her, shoulders tensed in case he has to hurry away again, in case he has to dodge her outstretched hand. Electric, the question throbs in his temples, carrying down his spine. 

_What’ll she see? What’ll she see?_

##### Day 516

Kevin is going to drop Steve and Leigh off at the airport, and most of the family is in the yard packing things into the car and talking about phone calls and pictures and _keep me updated_ and all-around saying goodbye. Luke decides to avoid it and starts slushing through the snow, making his way across the yard as silently and discretely as possible. 

Luke is halfway to the guesthouse before his brother’s heavy hand falls on his shoulder and he says, “Can we talk?” Restraining a tired sigh, Luke nods and opens the door, letting Steve slide through into the house before him and then latching the door and facing him. 

Up until now, Luke would say that Steve has been floating around the house. Apparently, he has either gotten past any lingering anxieties about fatherhood or has found some sort of peace that lets him cover it up. It’s a nice look on him, even if Luke doesn’t really understand it. Parenthood has never really appealed to him, and if it did, he doesn’t think it would be an option. He can barely handle himself, can’t really imagine being able to maintain a relationship and take care of a baby without dropping dead from the stress of it. Or accidently killing one of the other two. But Steve has always been a more paternal person, always had that paternal tilt to him. When they were younger, Steve had shrugged off the idea of having any kids, but Luke had always noticed that he was perhaps a little too adamant about it in a way that screamed fear instead of regular distaste. 

Now, however, Steve is pursing his lips and patting his hands on his thighs nervously, dark eyes trying to read something on Luke’s face, buzzing around and making Luke feel uncomfortably scrutinized. 

“What’s up?” Luke asks, unable to take the silence anymore. 

“You’d tell me if something was going on, right?” Steve asks, licking his lips. Luke thinks he feels something rattle in his skull and he closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself, to pull through the weirdness of that question. 

“I think I’ve proven that.” He arches his brows and then brushes past his brother, aiming for a seat so he doesn’t have to stand through this conversation. He catches himself rubbing at his chest and forces his hand to his side, then drops into a chair, gestures for Steve to sit too. 

“Right.” Steve sits across from him but does not relax, leans forward in his seat and continues to stare Luke down. “You just look a little rough.” 

Luke snorts. “That’s what I’ve heard.” 

“You said you were getting better. I don’t see it.” Steve’s tone is harsh, his jaw set, and Luke feels a spur of recognition. He hasn’t seen this version of his brother- this iteration of disappointment and frustration- in some time. Steve seems to notice his own fervor and forces himself to relax, releasing his fists and pressing back in his chair. When he speaks this time, his voice is gentle. “Just tell me what’s going on, Luke.” 

That’s hard to answer, when Luke himself feels so out of the loop in his own brain. Certainly, something is happening, and he suspects everything is rolling to a gradual end, but he can’t fully put a label on it. He is alive and present for the first time in a long time and he doesn’t know how to handle it. And also, either along with that or against it, he isn’t sure, he gets the sinking feeling that he isn’t alive at all. That perhaps he doesn’t really belong to himself in this moment and is just being dragged along until the lead is ready to yank him back. 

He can’t explain what he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t particularly want to terrorize his brother, especially not when the man has so many concerns of his own at the moment. So, he shakes his head and says, “I’ve been having a hard time sleeping. Maybe it’s stress.” 

Steve studies him, eyes flickering around Luke’s face. And Luke sits and lets him search, curious to know if he’s lost his ability to lie after all this time. Steve seems to accept his answer, silently nodding and then turning to look at the door as if he heard someone calling for him. 

They both stand and Steve wraps his brother in a hug. Luke rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes back, closing his eyes and maybe leaning a little too hard on him but suddenly desperate for the contact. Steve says something Luke can’t quite understand into his shoulder and then, louder, says, “Please, take care of yourself, Luke.”

##### Days 520-521

“Three, two, one, Happy New Year!” 

The house is full of party guests that Luke has almost successfully avoided all night, a task made easier when everyone is gathered around the television to watch the ball drop. He smiles and claps along, smiling as the room bursts with tossed confetti and excited howls, dozens of heads dipping forward for drunk kisses. 

Luke watches for a moment in the corner he has delegated himself to, then turns to the kitchen so he doesn’t have to stare like a creep. He finds a half empty liter of soda and tracks down an unused solo cup to pour himself some, taking a handful of ice from the freezer. He watches the pop fizz around the ice, smiling at the continued laughter and shrieks in the other room, then turns to go deeper into the house, farther from the excitement, and finds himself face to face with Arthur. 

Luke hollers and pulls away, dropping his cup and reaching his now free hands up, palms out as if to push the other man back. The cold drink flies up through the falling cup and then pools over and around Luke’s feet and he slips when he shifts back, one hand catching on the counter for support. 

A choked noise pulls from Luke’s throat as Arthur steps closer to him. He only met Arthur a handful of times, and never under the best circumstances. Arthur had been an attractive man, tall and fit. He had an easy smile and a quick wit that Luke had had a hard time keeping up with at the time, and yet he hadn’t made Luke uncomfortable. He was the definition of charisma without any of the sleaziness that often came with it. Luke remembers thinking that the guy looked like some sort of old fable hero, with his soft eyes and broad, humorous grin. 

Now, he looks very different. 

His skin has dulled into a sickly gray, similar to the creamy film over his eyes. His teeth look too large in his face, protruding through tightened skin and thin gums. There is no smile on his face, but his teeth snap like he can’t quite work his jaw the way he wants and his brows knit together to make an expression of pain and fear and confusion. He steps forward clumsily, two stiff arms cracking forward and reaching out for Luke. 

Luke tries to scramble back, but finds himself trapped between the dead man and the counter. He jerks his hands forward, thumping them against Arthur’s chest and finding give there, his hands seeping forward into creamy muck, and then yanking back with a cry of disgust. Both of Arthur’s hands clutch at the front of Luke’s shirt and pull him forward so their faces are too close. Luke 'can smell him, sweet with decay and cold like the grave. He groans and tries to free himself, hands sliding on Arthur’s wrists, flaps of skin rolling back under his touch. 

“Wait!” He yells, voice high and shrill. Someone will hear him. They have to, they have to. “No, wait!” 

Arthur ignores his pleas, leaning so his lips brush against his ear, and Luke listens to his rasp, struggling to gather the air to speak. Again, Luke screams, but the cheering in the other room seems to pick up and he knows his cries are being washed out. His knees quiver and Arthur’s weight is too much. They slide together to the floor, Luke’s back grinding against the side of the counter until he hits the floor. Arthur presses down on him until they are both laying on their sides, hands and legs tangled between them. Luke can’t look anywhere but into Arthur’s pale eyes and he feels another scream build in his throat. It catches there and all he can do is press out a muffled groan, tears springing from his eyes. 

Beside him, Arthur begins to convulse. Thick foam gathers around the edges of his mouth and he makes little clicking noises, like he can’t swallow. His eyes roll around loosely in his skull and his back arches as he writhes against Luke, who doesn’t know what to do but watch. He makes little strangled noises and hitches for air, and Luke is suddenly certain that the dead man is dying once more, and Luke looks around, half expecting his twin to peek around the corner and scream for his inaction. 

Still trembling, Arthur slides even closer to Luke, his movements inhuman and slow. A sneaking, slithering thing. Luke grinds his teeth when Arthur’s lips press against his ear and he chatters his teeth, opening his mouth and struggling to speak. 

“I love my love with an E,” he croaks, and then seems to finally release Luke, rolling away and shuddering a few more times. Luke closes his eyes hard and tries not to listen, silently begging his sister for forgiveness. 

Another hand wraps grabs Luke’s shirt and his eyes spring open as he is yanked uneasily to his feet. He trips forward, colliding with Trish, who easily bumps him back. She looks confused but not worried and her eyes only follow him loosely. When she speaks, Luke is momentarily stunned by the heavy scent of alcohol. 

“You okay?” She asks, leaning back against the refrigerator. Luke risks a glance over and finds that Arthur is gone. The only thing on the floor now is Luke’s spilled drink and a cracked solo cup. 

“I slipped,” he lies, and Trish is too drunk to question it. She laughs, nodding like she totally gets where he’s coming from, and pats his arm with a little too much gusto before turning her back to him and getting some ice of her own. Perhaps forgetting his presence, she shambles back out of the kitchen to return to the party.

##### Day 533

Someone died. That’s all Luke really knows. He listens to Kevin talk to someone softly over the phone, his face soft and understanding, though the person it’s aimed at can’t see, can’t be comforted by the kindness in the man’s eyes. Luke thinks he envies Kevin for his goodness, the way he feels and chooses right even when there is no apparent reward. 

Luke sits on the porch not long after the call and watches Andi welcome the delivery van. The back doors open up and the driver carefully lowers the body down on a gurney-type bed. They talk for a few minutes, adjusting something with the wraps, and then she holds the door open while the man wheels the body in. 

A few minutes later, the man walks back out with the bed, empty now, and Luke trails into the house, sweeping past Andi with a nod as the walks out the door to help the man lift the gurney back into the van. 

There’s no special motivation, at least not one that Luke is fully aware of, that leads him to the heavy doors of the morgue. He just winds up down there, staring and waiting for something to happen, like they will just swing open and the body will be waiting on the other side, mouth in an impatient line, making requests and offering suggestions about how their makeup should be done. 

The image makes his throat feel thick and he is stuck between discomfort and humor. He backs away from the door, pressing himself into the opposite wall, and doesn’t move again until he hears Andi approaching from the stairs. She is humming, and Luke listens for a recognizable tune but comes up empty. 

When she rounds the corner, her eyes cast to the corner Luke has wedged himself into and she jumps, shoulders hunching as both hands leap to her chest. In response, Luke jumps too. They stare at each other for a tense moment before Andi chuffs, slowly lowering her arms into a more relaxed posture. 

“Shit, Luke,” she breathes, eyes briefly falling shut and then opening with a good-natured glow. Luke smiles apologetically and peels himself off of the wall, approaching her idly and with something of a loose smile cresting his face. 

“Sorry,” he says, and she smiles up at him, flashing her teeth and shaking her head. He gestures at the door with his thumb. “New, uh… client?” 

Her expression becomes more serious, but not quite stiff. She knows how to disconnect from her job, how to do it well but still exist separately, how to go home at the end of the night without corpses trailing behind her. Must be nice, he thinks. 

“Yeah. Rough one.” Her face quirks into something sympathetic, as if the body is listening on the other side of the door and Andi doesn’t want to be too brash, too unkind. “The girl’s like twenty-something. I guess a deer went through her windshield the other night and just…crushed her.” 

They both turn to look at the door, letting the idea ruminate between them, Luke trying to imagine exactly what that looks like, what that does to a person. In his life, Luke has seen five dead bodies, four of which were dressed up and pretty for an open casket funeral. His grandfather, mother, father and sister. The other time was in an old abandoned farm house he and a few ‘friends’ were squatting in for a while and one of the guys overdosed in the middle of the night. 

“What’re you gonna do?” He asks, not quite meeting her eyes. She doesn’t look put off by the question- probably has been asked the same one over and over through the years- but just tilts her head thoughtfully, contemplating. 

“Well, I haven’t seen the damage yet, so it just depends what I find,” she says with a half shrug. He can see her thinking through the process, following different streams of thought, considering several alternate possibilities based on the condition of the woman’s skull. 

Without really thinking about it, Luke asks, “Can I see?” 

Clearly, his question stumps her. She studies him for a few moments, face creased into a frown. He knows she’s trying to figure out his motivation, whether this is appropriate or not. She inhales slowly, crossing her arms over her chest and shooting a probing look directly into his eyes. He flickers under the intensity of the stare. 

“This isn’t a creepy thing, is it?” She asks slowly, tone low and judgmental. He pulls a face and snorts, crossing his arms in a posture mimicking hers. 

“No, I’m just…” he considers his motivation for a moment, uncertain himself exactly what he hopes to gain from this. “I want to know. What happens.” It’s true, he thinks, though he doesn’t speak with much conviction. He’s already beginning to doubt himself, to question whether he can handle whatever is lying in there, heavy and dead on the slab. 

She seemingly decides he is being honest and slowly nods, shouldering open the door and waving him in. He follows after only a moment’s hesitation, walking stiffly behind her as she crosses over to the navy-blue body bag presented on the metal table. It is long and round, a few bumps here and there where her features rise up. On a table to the side of it is a picture; a young girl with big teeth and bursting blonde curls, sparkling makeup curving over big almond colored eyes. It looks like she’s at some kind of party, arm wrapped around someone cropped out of the picture while her other hand holds up a beer. Then there are tools, metal bits and pieces he doesn’t completely understand or want to identify and then combs and packets of makeup not yet opened. 

Luke takes this in, swallows thickly and stands on the opposite side of the bag to Andi, who is shifting things around on the table to suit her own methods, mumbling quietly to herself as she does. Finally, she grabs the zipper and looks up at him, face patient. 

“You sure?” Andi asks without a hint of teasing. Her expression is solemn, waiting him out but ready to get to work the moment he gives his answer. He can’t make himself speak, just nods and watches as her hand slowly pulls down, letting the sides of the bag fall away. 

In the split appears a face, and then shoulders and chest and stomach and hips, legs, feet and toes. A whole person. A dead woman zipped up neatly in a baggie. Luke nods, makes a humming noise that seems to amplify in his own skull, expanding out and pressing against his ears from the inside. Andi glances at him but he doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from the woman. 

She looks a lot like her picture. Same face, same hair. It’s all a little duller now, as if when her life was bashed out the color went with it. Her chest looks a little spongy, and the right side of her jaw doesn’t settle quite right, part of it drooping. Her throat, he thinks, is collapsed. And, of course, the parts of her that aren’t dusty white are a little purple, and there are whole slashes of crusty red. But still, her hair shoots wildly around her skull and he can see that one of her eyes, which is a little more open than the other, is brown beneath the surrounding fog. 

“Alright?” Andi asks, but Luke can’t respond. He just stares down at the girl. She is stiff, and yet, he thinks, this is the least control a person ever has. The corpse is vacated of whoever the woman was, joy and fear both gone, now. Anxieties and reputation vanished. A completely bare human that is hardly human at all. 

Andi knocks her fist on the metal table and Luke jolts out of his thoughts, blinking up at her. Her lips are rolled up, eyes considering. Luke opens his mouth, taking in a slow breath, and then he gestures down at the woman without looking at her. 

“She, um,” he shifts, taking one step back, suddenly very conscious of how close he has been to her, how if he isn’t careful, he might _touch_ her. “Who?” 

Taking her eyes off of him, Andi shuffles closer to the other end of the bag and pulls up a tag. She sighs, lets it fall back and then returns to the head, looking pityingly down at the body, not meeting Luke’s eyes when she says, “Elaine.” 

_Elaine_ , he thinks. _Elaine_. Slowly, mechanically, Luke looks at her face once more, trying to connect the name with this hollow thing, trying to mesh Elaine and the body until they are one, until he can match this woman with the one in the photo. She was alive just a few days ago, she had been on her way somewhere when she died. An entire person who breathed and smiled such a bright smile. In the photo he can almost hear her laugh, imagine a warm voice breaking into bubbling glee. Before him, she is so still that he can hardly imagine she was ever capable of more. 

“Well,” he says, drawing the word out and then turning away from Andi and Elaine and the whole scene, walking to the door. “Alright.” He waves over his shoulder, holding his eyes stiffly to the door as he pushes through and takes himself back up the stairs and to the bathroom. 

He stands very still and stares at the shower, hands on his hips. His mouth is dry and when he swallows it tickles his throat. His eyes remain open, staring intently at the white wall and aggressively thinking about anything but the basement, anything but his own churning stomach and deer and broken bodies. Some time passes before he can move again, and he cracks his knuckles, washes his hands though he doesn’t really need to and then exits, carefully avoiding his reflection in the mirror. 

Feeling like he has too much skin, Luke decides to take the rest of the day off and quietly crosses the yard to the guesthouse. He locks the door behind him, peeling off his clothing in a trail to his bathroom, and stumbles into the shower. Luke hadn’t touched Elaine, he was certain of it. But his hands feel wrong, too thick, like the skin is bubbling off and he feels that maybe the woman has done something to him, maybe in his carelessness and curiosity he had gotten to close and breathed something in, absorbed some of her blankness and was also falling away from himself, bones excavating themselves, releasing sloughs of flesh and holding his innards as something completely separate. 

He scrapes at his arms and throat, letting the pads of his fingers assure him that his skin is suctioned on properly, attached to his body just as it has always been, as it had been all morning and just before the door to the morgue was ever opened. 

After a while, Luke stumbles out. He towels himself off and pulls on more comfortable clothes. Swallowing convulsively, he shuffles to the bed and lays back on it. The light streams in through the curtains, reminding him that it is only just afternoon. Still, he burrows under the blanket, edging it up to completely cover his head, and remains there until nighttime. 

 

~*~

 

Eventually and, perhaps, unsurprisingly, Shirley comes to the guesthouse when Luke doesn’t come to dinner. He hears the sound of her feet shuffling around just outside the door before she reluctantly knocks and pulls himself out of bed, already making his way to welcome her by the fourth rap. As the door opens, Shirley hops back, apparently surprised at his speed. Or maybe she had expected him to already be asleep and didn’t expect an answer at all. 

Luke stands in the doorway, smiling weakly while she takes in his disheveled appearance. Any narcissism he might have had left him a long time ago when he would wake up on cold floors with drool over his mouth and unfamiliar faces slouched and staring just as dazedly back at him. He steps aside and lets Shirley in and she takes a seat at the little table, picking up a dogeared book and reading the title before settling in. 

He sits across from her, hands flat on the tabletop, and waits. She doesn’t hold out for long. Her eyes level with his and she holds off for him to meet them before she begins to speak. 

“What happened today, Luke?” She asks, her voice stern but not harsh, like when one of her children return from school with a disciplinary report, giving him a chance to explain himself honestly and without fear. He appreciates the effort but isn’t sure that it actually works in practice. 

Luke shifts in his seat, twiddles his thumbs. “I just…you know.” But apparently, she doesn’t because she remains silent, listening patiently for him to finish. Unable to find a true and sensical explanation, he shrugs and looks away to the window behind her. 

“Andi said you were curious,” Shirley presses. Her hand slides across the table as if reaching out for him, but it stops midway, sitting strangely in the open space, fingers arrowed straight at his stomach. They are sharing the same space but fall distant, like they are locked in separate clear bubbles, seeing and aware but alien. It is almost a nostalgic feeling. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I just wanted to know what they’re like before.” Before the makeup and the special clothes, but after they are looked over and emptied of what is needed, what is offered. Luke has seen a body so fresh its eyes seemed to still take in the world around it, slightly hazy even then but not completely empty. Slack. He knows the dead when they are slack, and then, much later, when they are configured into doll-like displays, laid out for mourners and no longer belonging to themselves. But this middle stage- empty but still, in some way, independent- he had never seen. Shirley had explained it to him before, though not very graphically. And maybe, it turns out, he didn’t actually want the graphic version. 

“Okay,” Shirley says, tapping her fingers tunelessly. He risks a look in her direction and finds that she is no longer looking at him. Her eyes are distant, staring just past his ear. The gears tick, tick, tick in her brain and he can almost see them turning, working for understanding. He waits nervously for judgement, but all she says is, “Are you alright?” 

Luke swallows compulsively. He leans back in his chair and wraps his arms protectively over his chest, as if holding himself in, tucking in his loose ends and restraining the wild thump of his heart. 

“I’m good,” he finally answers, and can tell by his sister’s expression that his tone is not convincing. He feels unfurled, like the controlled edges of himself are coming undone and he can’t quite get a grip, can’t contain himself enough to manage a good lie. 

“It’s a hard thing to see,” she says calmly, as if he isn’t falling apart in front of her. Her fingers stop tapping and she draws her hand back in but not far enough away that he couldn’t reach it if he wanted to, careful not to cut herself off from him. “That’s why my job exists; seeing your loved ones like that is awful. It’s a horrible way to remember anyone.” 

He doesn’t say _but you fixed Nell_ because nothing she could say would make sense of it all and, ultimately, the question wouldn’t serve either of them. 

“Right,” he agrees instead, and then hears himself say, “a few years ago one of my friends died and I sat with him until the ambulance got there. Then I ran away.” 

They both tense. He bites his tongue to restrain any further confessions, sinking lower into his chair, watching his sister cautiously. It wasn’t a full description of what happened but he’s sure she can piece it together, can tell that he had been getting high somewhere with a group of people and had been around for an overdose. It’s not a stretch that he would have been around something like that at some point, or even that the dead friend could have been him in an alternate timeline. 

“Jesus.” Shirley says slowly and resolutely, only slightly hoarse. Now her hand completes its journey and wraps around his fingers, squeezing tightly enough that his knuckles ache. Her eyes meet his and her expression is hard to read, angry but affectionate, slightly watery. “That’s awful.” 

He nods because, yeah, it had been, then says, “Sorry,” in a voice that trembles. He clears his throat and neither of them say anything for a while, just staring at each other and thinking separately until Shirley takes a long breath and pulls them both to their feet. The hand that isn’t knotted with his grips his shoulder. 

“Not everyone…” she starts, but shakes whatever she was going to say away and tries again, “There’s a lot of bad, Luke. We don’t need to hunt for it, alright?” Her eyes are tired and she waits for his nod before she pulls him into a hug, holding him only briefly before pulling away and turning back to the door so he can’t see her face. 

“Goodnight,” he says, though Shirley hasn’t moved to the door. Jumpstarted, she takes a few steps and responds in kind before pushing back out into the night air.

##### Day 539

Elaine plants herself in Luke’s dreams, and then in his sketchbook. 

When he sleeps, she hooks her arm over his shoulder, raises a glass and screams joy into the open air. He can almost smell her. Sweat and perfume and alcohol. Her laugh bellows just the way he imagined it would, and her body pressed against his is so warm, almost inhumanely warm, and he wants to bury himself in her, to step inside and curl up and just float along while she smiles and yells and laughs. 

He bottles it up for a few days before she bleeds out of him onto the paper. It starts as an accident, her bright smile beginning as only lips, then blossoming up into a nose and eyes until he has her full face etched down. Shamed, he throws his sketchbook away from him and tries to force his thoughts away. But then it happens again, and again. Elaine, a woman he never knew, never saw alive except through one old photograph. She stretches across the pages, always wrapped in a blue dress, specks of glitter in her wild hair, her face trapped in a smile. 

She was happy. She must have been. Luke can’t make himself see her but one of two ways: elated, eyes pinching with a wide smile and her whole body open and jubilant, or pale and broken and bloody, falling open over a slab and her eyes trying to pop open on some weird reflex. Alive and vibrant, then placid and dead. That is all she can ever be to him. 

His drawings slowly drip from one to the other. He stops trying to understand her as she was, knows that he can never really touch on who she actually was outside of one picture, trapping her in one joyous moment and blotting out whoever she truly was, whoever she was in the bad moments or the lonely times or just who she was without a beer. 

No longer does he give her a bright smile and gleaming teeth or bouncing blonde hair. She is flat, pale. Mindlessly staring out from the page. He smudges pencil lead into bruises, into blood that dips into her collarbones. Her arms stick down at her sides, bony fingers slightly curved where they rest. Her hair is smoothed down around her face and her mouth pops open just a little bit. 

He draws her dead. Makes her horrible and absent and empty. 

And then, and then, and then. He sets her eyes wider on a longer skull, surrounded by coarse black hair.

##### Day 550

Luke is lying in bed, reluctant to rise. His whole body feels too heavy, unwarranted exhaustion burning behind his eyes and dragging him down deeper under the blanket, wrapped up tightly and shutting his eyes against the rising sun. 

Outside, the birds sing. They are slowly emerging and making themselves known, starting to collect for nests and fight for food. Luke listens for some time, lying back so quietly, slowing his own breath and listening intently, as if he will find some sort of understanding in the birdsong. 

He feels dread. Heavy in his stomach and fluttering in his chest. It doesn’t make sense, has no known origin that he can hunt down and disregard. All he has is the sinking certainty that the birds are chirping _it’s that time of year_ and that something bad is going to happen. 

Gradually, he forces himself up. He uncovers himself and slides out of bed, staring at the floor under his feet for a while before finally motivating himself to stand and make his way to the bathroom. As he walks by, he is careful not to look out the windows, certain he doesn’t want to see what looks back.

##### Day 559

“Maybe therapy wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Steve idles. The wind is blowing hard enough that Luke thinks he can feel the whole guesthouse shift under it, battered back and forth. 

“For who?” Luke asks, sensing a trap. He doesn’t know if Steve has ever sought out therapy but he almost certainly wouldn’t bring it up to Luke, doesn’t like opening himself up quite that much just yet, not to the token damaged son. 

“Well,” he hesitates, “you.” 

“I’ve talked to a counselor before. It’s pretty much the same,” Luke says, looking at his broken and torn nails. 

“I don’t know, Luke. The counselor was aimed at your drug use, right? So maybe sitting with someone objective and talking about, um… what’s going on inside wouldn’t be a bad idea. I mean, it couldn’t hurt, right?” 

Luke hums, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling. Popcorn ceiling. 

“Therapy is a good thing, I’d recommend it to anyone who can afford it,” he says, not mentioning that he probably can’t afford it, “but therapy didn’t do much for Nell, so what could it do for me?” 

Silence. Then, “I guess you have a point. But I really wish you’d talk to somebody. I… well, I’m not worried, I just want you to be happy.” Steve stumbles over his words, and Luke can imagine him pacing around the office, trying to be soft. 

Instead of saying _I’ve done all the talking I need to_ , Luke says, “I talk to you all the time. And Shirley.”

“Not Theo, though?” Steve asks, and Luke smiles, tries to decide if his brother is fishing out of concern for Luke or at amusement against his sister. 

“No. We don’t talk much at all.” He isn’t really sure if that’s more his fault or hers, but he still sees her, understands her anger, wishes away his own. 

“You’d think we’d take advantage of her PhD, but apparently we all prefer suffering alone.” Steve chuckles, then goes on to say, “You know, pets are really good for stress. And anxiety. Maybe you could ask Shirley if she’d mind you keeping something in the guesthouse. I mean, you’ve had a dog before, right? At Aunt Janet’s? That funny little mutt. I remember seeing it when I’d visit.”

##### Day 563

Instead of a cake, Luke gets a batch of warm cookies for his birthday and a sheepish look from Shirley that says there’s more to it than that and _don’t be mad at me_. He figures he wouldn’t have the right to be mad even if he felt so inclined, and just hugs her and mumbles a quick thanks into her hair. 

Then she bites her lip and fishes something out of her pocket. She finds whatever she was hunting for and holds her hand out in a fist, knuckles facing him, and he stretches his hand palm up to accept the offer. There is a moment of hesitation when Shirley’s eyes drop to his hand and she seems to reconsider, warring with herself over whether she wants to hand the hidden object over or return it to her pocket. She makes a decision. 

She holds her hand over his and then opens it just enough for a dark circle to drop, pulling down a quickly unraveling chain. He stares at it without comprehension, not fully understanding until he looks up and sees her nerves dancing over her face, eyes set so hard on him that he can’t look back at the locket, can’t unlatch from the contact. 

And he knows now, of course, that it must be their mother’s locket. He just doesn’t really understand how or why or what exactly that means for him. 

He brings his hand up to tap the charm, feeling its small weight on the meat of his hand. Shirley releases the chain and lets the whole thing collapse downward so that Luke alone is holding it. He brings it to his chest and stares down, studying the dull gold. 

“Dad had it,” Shirley explains, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She, too, is staring at the trinket coiled in his hand. “And I guess it went to me. For whatever reason. And I know it was going to be Nell’s so I figured…” 

“Yeah,” He says, unable to meet her eyes. Emotion is stuck in his throat and the words wheeze around it, coming out thicker and slightly garbled. He exhales slowly and wraps his fingers around the necklace, covering it completely. “Thanks, Shirl.” 

She nods. 

Later, when he is alone in the guesthouse, warm from a shower and lying above his blankets in bed, no noise but the _click_ and _turn_ he has grown so used to hearing through the wall, he brings the locket out and pops it open. 

He is careful with the clasp, worried that it will snap from disuse or age, but it comes open easily, like someone had been opening and closing it for years. He bites his lip. The pictures are unchanged, his twin and him smiling on either side, light and careless and projecting an air of _before_ that he never thought he’d see again. 

The images hold him for a long time. He sits so still and quiet, focused in on their young faces faded with time but still somehow vibrant with the old ink, that he can almost feel the heavy thud of his own heart. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. 

He slides out of bed, carefully pulling the chain open and clasping it around his neck. The hanging weight is pleasant, and he stands and lets himself feel it for a moment before carefully tucking the locket under his shirt so all that is visible is the slight bump between his collarbones and a hint of gold chair at the edge of his collar. 

When he opens the door, he is welcomed by a symphony of crickets and croaking toads. He closes the door carefully behind him and pads barefoot across the yard, over grass and gravel. The lights are out in the house, but he still moves quietly, eyeing the windows to watch for silent observers. He unlocks and opens the front door so carefully, closing his eyes at the squeak, and then steps inside, leaving the door open behind him. 

Quickly, he hurries to the kitchen and grabs up the car keys where they lie in an apple dish along with several other loose keys and membership cards. He keeps it in his palm as he sneaks back the way he came, shutting and relocking the front door behind him and then walking along the driveway until he is standing beside the family car. He unlocks it with a click and looks back at the windows one last time before slipping into the driver’s side. 

The car revs silently, headlights flashing on against the garage door. Luke sits there for some time, thumb and forefinger still tucked around the key, eyes flat on the bright lights before him. He breathes slowly, calmly, and feels his heart beat steadily. 

Finally, he pulls out of the driveway. He only takes the car around the block, easing along the dark roads just below the speed limit, and then pulls back into the driveway. He removes the ley and slowly reenters the main house, sets the keys back in the apple dish, relocks the front door and walks, barefoot, back to the guesthouse. He’s almost asleep before his head hits the pillow, and he rests like a rock.

##### Day 568

He’s afraid to tell Shirley, but less afraid to tell her than to tell Steve, and more afraid still to tell Theo. He’s leaning on the kitchen island, watching her make a lunchmeat sandwich, listening to her talk about plans for the weekend and maybe getting Jayden started on an instrument, because apparently children who play instruments show improvement in other fields and she really thinks he would enjoy a productive hobby. He nods along and comments when necessary and tries to build up the courage to interrupt her. 

“What’re you thinking?” She asks, breaking him out of his anxiety. She is giving him a knowing smile but he’s pretty sure she has no idea what he is thinking, though it would be a neat trick if she proved him wrong. 

“Um,” he says, shifting in his seat. Immediately, her whole posture changes and she stands closer, shoulders tense. “I think I’m ready for a change.” 

“Okay, what does that mean?” She asks, raising one brow. She doesn’t sound upset, looks a little tense but that’s understandable; she also gets this look when Jayden says he got called to the office or Allie starts asking too many questions or Kevin tries to help too much and they start tripping over each other. It’s the discomfort of someone who isn’t upset but would like to be in a more pleasant situation or is concerned that they are going to be upset soon. Pre-anger preparation. 

Luke tries for a smile, lips pulling back over his teeth. It’s like he’s never smiled before; his mouth feels rubbery, like there’s too much skin on his face and it doesn’t know where to go when he redirects his muscles like this. He lets it sit for three seconds before easing it away, looking down at her sandwich and picking at a loose thread on his sweater, working a new hole in the maroon fabric. 

“Yeah. I think I’m gonna move out. To the country. I don’t think it’s good for me to be here anymore.” Shirley’s face shifts from one concern to another, from _it’s him_ to _it’s me_. He lifts a hand, swipes it down. “Not like that. I mean, it’s crowded.” 

He shakes his head as he says it. The suburbs are not crowded. They are quiet and trim and watching. 

“Did something happen?” She asks, reaching forward but not quite taking his hand, letting her palm settle on the countertop just inches from his as if she’s waiting for him to make the first move, letting him move at his own pace. He breathes slow. 

“I just want to be able to leave the house without dealing with people.” Better. True. Truer without being a complete truth. A lie of omission, which isn’t really a lie. “Just don’t tell anyone. I don’t want Steve thinking about it when the baby’s almost here. I won’t leave until after. I haven’t even started to look yet.” Again, omission. He hasn’t looked because he knows where he’s going. He doesn’t want to lie and say that he’s using a combination of money from Steve’s new book and his own savings from Hutchinson’s to buy a little shack. Doesn’t want to lie at all, though he knows he will eventually. 

After a moment’s pause, Shirley eventually nods, “Sure, Luke. If you need any help looking for a place, I’d be happy to. I have a realtor I could recommend.”

He nods, finally inches his hand over so it meets hers. It earns him a soft smile, like relief. Like she was afraid, still, that he was leaving because of her. Fear that she was pushing him away, freezing him out. Fear that Theo was right about her. Luke hates that he’s pushing up these fears. 

“I’ve really liked being able to catch up with you,” he says, eyes dropping to the countertop, anxious with his own vulnerability, even when he knows it will be accepted. “Kevin and the kids. I, uh… I was gone a long time. I’m grateful that you gave me the opportunity to… come back. To be a part of a family, again. Really, Shirl.” He clears his throat and forces himself to meet her eyes. Her cheeks are rosy and her face has curved with emotion. She nods quickly and sniffs, taking her plate and giving his hand one more pat before taking her meal to her office. 

“Happy to,” she says with her back to him, quickly moving through the door.

##### Day 579

Nicolette hadn’t been lying about having a Ouija board tucked away somewhere. When Luke gets to work, she suggestively taps her canvas bag with the side of her foot, and when he looks the corner of a box peeks out at him. It takes a moment to register what he is seeing, and his face contorts into a confused mixture of humor and dread. Nicolette is mostly pleased, apparently unconcerned with the implications of his history and her belief. 

They wait until Hutchinson’s is closed to break it out. There is no ceremony, Nicolette just pulls the box out and holds the lid lightly enough that the base of the box falls down onto the desktop.  
Inside is a simple board with the alphabet etched over the flat surface, followed by numbers zero through nine and a stretched-out goodbye at the bottom. The top left corner says ‘yes’ and there is a smiling sun, and on the other side, longways, is ‘no’ and a grinning moon. It’s pretty much exactly what he imagined and what he has seen in horror movies. 

His stomach pulls. This is stupid. Part of him is certain that the Ouija board is just a silly game that doesn’t make sense, that was designed for dinner parties and is sold in toy stores. There’s no power in a board game. The other part of him thinks _why not?_ He’s seen weirder. Has had experiences that prove that there are things to communicate with. Though he doesn’t know if he necessarily wants to communicate. 

Then, who exactly is he trying to talk to? And why? After everything, if he wants to talk to his dead family he knows where to go. 

Nicolette pulls the board out and sets the box aside before laying the board flat on the desk. Then she reaches back into her bag and pulls out a silk, purple pouch. She undoes the top and shakes a planchette out onto her open palm. The planchette is smooth and triangular. It is ivory with ornate silver engravings rotating towards a round opening near the pointy end, the silver looping like disconnected vines. 

“Should we turn the lights off?” He asks, his voice shakier than he expected. Nicolette smiles at him, taking in his nervous gaze, and pats his arm. 

“We’re supposed to, but it probably doesn’t make a difference.” She makes a face that reminds him of Steve and he imagines what his brother would think if he saw Luke now, hunched over a Ouija board with his fingers trembling, taking it all just a little too seriously. 

Luke gets up and crosses the room, shaking his hands out as discretely as he can, and switches the lights off. The store is dark but not pitch black, lit by the streetlights through the row of windows. He returns to his seat, carefully not rushing and turning so his back isn’t to the darkness. 

Once he’s settled in, Nicolette takes the planchette and holds it over the board. He waits for her to drop it, but she’s looking at him instead. Her nose is wrinkled and her eyes are digging into him in a way that makes him twitch. 

“We don’t have to,” she says, and he believes her. If he said right now that he changed his mind, no thank you, she would just smile, nod, and put it all away. Nicolette wouldn’t taunt him about it later, or resent him for ruining her fun. She would just put it away and they would move on. 

“I want to.” Luke scoots his chair closer and she looks at him for a moment longer before gently placing the planchette on the board. She instructs him to place two fingers very lightly on the planchette and does the same, the side of her hand brushing against his. 

“I’ll do the talking,” she whispers, and then starts pushing the planchette around the board in wide circles. Once, twice three times before he feels her direct it to the middle of the board. 

He watches the thin bones in her hand move as she forces the planchette around, as if he will memorize the sight and be better prepared to call her out if she fakes anything. Though he doubts she would, he can almost feel Steve lurking over his shoulder, whispering about unintentional hand movements and how everybody loves a story. 

No longer looking at Luke, but completely focused on the board, Nicolette speaks in a calm, smooth voice. “Is there anyone here who would like to talk to us?” 

They are both very quiet. Neither of their hands move on the board. There is no surge of power or bolts of lightning, no dark shadows shifting around the room. Luke flicks his eyes up to Nicolette’s face and she doesn’t look concerned or put-off by the lack of action. She just waits a few seconds longer and then repeats her question, no louder or more agitated than the first time. 

When again nothing happens, Nicolette smiles softly up at Luke, her eyes slightly apologetic, and she says, “You wanna try? Sometimes it’s important who asks the questions. Sometimes they need a special voice.” She shrugs as if to say _weird I know_ and Luke feels discomfort slide through his stomach. He refocuses his attention down to the board. 

“Hello?” He says, then, rolling his eyes at himself, “is someone here?” 

The planchette lurches so abruptly that it flies out from under their hands and they are left suspended in air. Nicolette makes a small, shocked noise and twitches as if to try and catch the pointer, but stops herself short, moving instead to write down the letters that it pauses over. 

Luke stares. Doesn’t blink. He doesn’t try to keep track of whatever the planchette is spelling out, but boggles at the rapidly darting triangle, mouth agape. It feels like something has torn open in his chest, but instead of pain he feels the oddest relief. Beside him, Nicolette stops writing, her eyes wide and staring at the paper, reading over what she’s written as the planchette continues its trek. 

The planchette quickens its pace, almost dizzying in its speed. Then, without warning, Nicolette slams her palm down over it, holding it in place. It jerks around under her hand a few times like a small rodent trying to escape, then stills. Nicolette glances at Luke and he slowly replaces his hand on the planchette as well. Nicolette rolls it again in wide circles over the board one, two, three times. 

“It’s time to say goodbye, now,” She whispers, voice rough enough that Luke looks at her face, finds it drawn and nervous. She doesn’t look back at him, just directs the planchette down and slides it over the word GOODBYE and then lets it slide right off the board. 

“Bye,” Luke says, still staring at Nicolette. She licks her lips and then starts packing up the board, dropping and resealing the planchette into its pouch and then tucking it into the canvas back with the closed box. “Nicolette?” He whispers, gesturing at the paper. 

Nicolette reluctantly slides the paper across the desk. For a moment all he sees is a jumble of letters, written messily and in a hurry, scratched in red across the blank surface. He scans over the line of letters slowly, taking each word as it comes, and reels back. 

“LUKE ITS TIME TO OPEN THE DOOR LUKE COME HOME.” 

He pulls to his feet, almost tripping on the leg of his chair as he wheels around and lurches for the door. He hears Nicolette jump up behind him, calling for him to wait, hold on, but he can’t stop. He bursts through the door and is hit with the chilled night air. He runs until he is home.

##### Day 582

After a few days, Luke calls into work and quits. Nicolette starts apologizing, trying to talk him out of it in a rushed tone, but he just thanks her and hangs up.

##### Day 586

Shirley realizes that Luke isn’t going to work after only a few days. He hadn’t been actively hiding it. He still goes on his morning walks, just cuts across the street so he doesn’t have to approach the front windows of the store and face the possibility of Nicolette seeing him and stepping out to talk. When he gets back, he slips into the guesthouse and showers, goes about his regular routine. Then, instead of Hutchinson’s, Luke goes over to the main house and helps out over there. Household chores, deskwork, getting water for clients while they wait. Just like before he started working at the bookstore at all. 

When Shirley decides to ask him about it, he knows what’s happening before she even gets the chance to open her mouth, but he doesn’t interrupt, lets her voice her concern. Figures it will give him time to think of an answer or some explanation that doesn’t involve taunting the dead and seeking things he has always actively avoided. 

He is sitting on the couch reading and she presses her hands to the cushion on either side of his head and frowns down at him. He has to roll his head backward to see her when she speaks. 

“Did you get some time off?” Shirley asks, but her pinched expression reveals her suspicions. They both know that he didn’t randomly get a week off of work, and they both know that if he was going to act out it wouldn’t be in a way that would get him suspended, and he probably wouldn’t have come home if he had been. 

“I quit.” Rip off the Band-Aid, get it all out in the open. Shirley nods, her eyes drifting to the side as she thinks. Luke sits silently and lets her. 

“Are you okay?” Her voice is quieter now, softer. Trying not to scare him away, encouraging him to open up and finally tell her what’s going on inside his head. He knows that he is going to lie but he hesitates anyway, considers what it would be like to just let it all go. Open the floodgates and let his big sister help him. He can’t. He won’t. But for a moment the fantasy is nice, and he lets out a long breath. 

“Yeah, I just figured I’d be leaving soon enough so,” he shrugs one shoulder, “no point keeping a job.” 

He sees her work her jaw, not quite annoyed but displeased. Chewing over what he’s said. Her eyes are suspicious slits, flickering over him and trying to piece together the puzzle. He wonders if she will ask how he’s going to afford a house, or if he’s already found a place to move, or what exactly ‘soon enough’ means. But she doesn’t push, just licks her lips and brushes her fingers through his hair before standing and going back to work.

##### Day 591

When Luke steps out of the guesthouse for his morning walk, Theo is waiting for him. She is wearing a purple tank and plain leggings, a water bottle hooked over her index finger. She looks athletic, like she is his trainer, like she has appeared to drag him along on his first workout. 

“Morning,” he says, walking down the steps so he is level with her. She takes in his appearance, doesn’t seem approving or skeptical. 

“Good morning. I’m going with you today,” she says with a smile, no teeth. He just nods, deciding against questioning her motivation, certain that it will either confuse him further or agitate him. Whatever, she’s there and he has no reason against her tagging along that he can explain without saying something dismal, like _walking is my little death_ or _this is how I go away, my brief escape, my disconnect_. None of it necessary, as long as this doesn’t become a new ritual for them, her appearing every morning for a communal walk. 

He starts, glancing back and waiting for her to take up the space beside him. They take a leisurely pace, more relaxed than he is used to and probably slower than she anticipated. She looks like she expected a jog, not for him to walk out in jeans and a t-shirt for a boring walk. He’s not even wearing proper exercise shoes, just his regular kicks. 

They go in silence for a while, him moving carefully so as not to bump her bare arm with his and her looking around like she hasn’t been through the neighborhood a million times before. It’s some time before she glances in his direction, prompting him to return her stare. 

“Why do you go this way?” She asks, one brow arched. 

He pauses before responding, a slight frown cresting his face. “Why’s this way weird?” Everyone seemed to think that this was the wrong way to walk, though he doesn’t really see how there could be a wrong way. He sees people jogging the same path as him all the time. 

“I didn’t think you liked being around people,” she answers with a shrug, returning her eyes to the space ahead of them. Luke chews on this and they continue, falling back into companionable if slightly strained silence. 

The crux of it is, Luke doesn’t really feel like being analyzed this morning. He didn’t sign up for this back and forth, didn’t ever say that he thought he needed someone to help him work out his inner demons, to relieve his mind. Theo never asked to play his therapist, and he doesn’t know if she is doing so intentionally or if it’s just her natural way after all this time, but he doesn’t want it. Especially not from his sibling. 

“Weather’s nice,” he says, squinting at the clouds. The sky is a little overcast but sweetly cool, not dark enough that he’s worried about rain. Theo frowns upward and then turns to look at him skeptically, apparently disagreeing. “No?” He teases, flicking a grin in her direction. 

“You’re not gonna talk to me?” She asks, instead. He stumbles and she waits for him to right himself before picking their pace back up, watching him carefully. 

Okay, he thinks, so she’s doing it on purpose. 

“I’m talking,” he says, voice lower than he wants it to be, almost a warning. Perhaps more of a plea. She just snorts, faces forward and slows her pace, taking him with her. “What do you want to talk about?” He says slightly waspishly. 

“I just want to make sure you’re still feeling okay.” She says, not reacting to his agitation, voice smooth and even. He envies her, her apparent control. He thinks about when they were children and she was able to frown, almost apathetically, at the dangerous world around them, possibly more curious than frightened. It reminds him who had always been the frightened ones; him and Nellie curled in their beds, staring at each other across the small room and waiting for whatever was coming, sitting together in senseless dread, anticipation. No relief to come, not for years and years. 

Maybe, he thinks, never to come. Ceaseless to death and possibly beyond. 

“I’m good,” he says, wiping his palms on his pantlegs and speeding up a little, leaving her to catch up. She opens her mouth to respond but he cuts her off before she can, asks, “What, did Shirley tell you I wasn’t?” 

At that, Theo pulls a face, as if this idea was somehow offensive. He doesn’t really see how; he was around Shirley more than any of his siblings and saw Theo the least. How much could she really learn from the occasional dinner? That he was quiet, sure. That he hadn’t really cleaned up his appearance, yeah. But surely nothing more substantial than that without some kind of prompting from their sister. 

“No,” she snaps, finally showing some sort of emotion. Irritation. “You’re just not getting better. At all.” 

He wants to turn on her, to say that she’s not being fair and that she can’t really make any assessments on his state when she’s never around, just like Steve shouldn’t be analyzing him from across the country. Instead he just laughs, not exactly humorlessly, and shakes his head at her. 

“Fuck you,” he snorts, and she stops walking. He turns to look at her and then immediately tuns back, continues walking so he doesn’t have to see her stricken expression.

##### Day 598

Luke opens the locket then closes it, over and over and over.

##### Day 608

When Steve calls, Luke tries to steer the conversation towards baby names or something else his brother will get lost in so Luke can just lean back in his desk chair and listen. Steve has other plans. They say their pleasantries and Luke barely has his mouth open to ask the question before Steve starts in, tone accusatory. 

“What happened at work?” 

Luke feels his body go rigid and frustration eases up his spine. He pinches the bridge of his nose and imagines just setting down the phone and letting Steve rant to himself, or maybe just taking it easy on both of them and hanging up. Then again, that wouldn’t do well to lessen his family’s suspicions that something is going on with him. Plus, Steve doesn’t really deserve it. 

“Nothing,” Luke says after a too-long pause. He tries to train the agitation out of his voice when he says, “Did Shirley tell you to ask?” 

Steve makes a displeased noise, almost like a hiss, maybe closer to a guffaw. Like Luke is being ridiculous for even asking. Of course, he talked to Shirley about it. How else would Steve know that Luke quit his job or that it happened so abruptly? If Luke could go back in time, he might have kept it a better hidden secret. He could have gone to town, sat in the park or gotten something to eat. Sat in the library all day. It had been silly for him to think that his family would just let it go because he said it didn’t matter. 

“Shirl is worried about you,” Steve says, then drops his tone. Low, delicate. Preparing to breach an uncomfortable topic. “She said you’ve been depressed, Luke.” 

Luke blinks. Tries to remember if he’s been acting more depressed than usual, wondering what exactly that means for him. When did Old Depression end and New Depression begin? What does it look like? Apparently, there was some clear transition that he just didn’t notice. Sure, he’s had a hard time since he was released from the hospital and deposited in Shirley’s guest house, finding it ready and furnished, smelling like laundry detergent. But before that was the same. 

“No,” Luke says slowly, frowning at the wall. He thinks he’s probably lying, continues anyway. “I told you I’ve had insomnia.” 

Steve makes the noise again. Like he’s blowing hot air through his teeth. “Oh, come on—” 

Luke cuts him off, pressing the palm of his hand to his eyes and trying to keep the wobble out of his voice. He is desperate not to have this conversation, wants to beg his brother not to push for answers. _Leave me be, leave me be. If this is the rock I want to die on, let me_. “Wouldn’t you rather talk about the baby? Or your book?” 

“Luke—” 

“Because _I_ would.” 

Steve speaks quickly now, his voice low and frustrated. It’s the same voice Luke always used to get, the one through the phone when Luke was lost, when he wandered off and didn’t have any money and was scared, scared and wanted his big brother to clean up his mess. Back when he was stupid enough to want to be saved and selfish enough to think he might deserve it. 

“Stop it! I’m worried about you!” 

Something catches in Luke’s throat and he has to force himself to speak. 

“I’m fine.” He says as calmly as he can. Then he pauses, waits to see if Steve is going to say anything further before he continues. “Listen, I’ve been having a rough time staying awake at work so I’m trying to go easy on myself.” 

This is a blatant lie. It’s different from the lie he told Shirl, but he doubts Shirley already told Steve why Luke left his job. She knows that Luke hasn’t told him about moving out yet, so if Steve goes back to her with a different story, she might just brush it off. If she asks him about it, he’ll just tell her that he wasn’t ready to tell him, especially not when Steve was acting like Luke wasn’t capable of making his own decisions. 

Steve chews this over, and neither of them speaks for some time. Luke shuts his eyes and listens to the light static over the phone line, tries to pick out what’s just that and what’s his brother’s soft breathing. When Steve speaks, his voice is small. “You promise?” 

Luke’s jaw clicks shut and he struggles for a moment to unlatch it and speak. 

“Yeah. Jeez, Steve.” Guilt drips down his stomach and he wishes the conversation would end so he can tuck himself away and shut himself up for a while, perfectly still and quiet. 

“I’m proud of you for looking out for yourself.” Luke doesn’t know how to respond to that and they sit for a moment in heavy silence before Steve clears his throat and moves on. “I’m always available to talk, you know. Even on other days of the week.”

##### Day 611

Sitting on the porch chair, one hand braced over his chest, trying to work out some of the pain there and knowing by now that there is no hope, he figures it out. The pain, the tug. The way the ground seems to shift under his feet, begging him farther and farther away from home. 

It’s Nell. Of course, it is Nell. 

The connection between twins. He feels it now, maybe more than before. No drugs to block it all out, no sudden and harsh grief or new regrets lurking around every corner. It’s been over a year since his 90-day mark, since Nell died. And she’s not really gone. 

Even now he doesn’t feel her loss. She is absent. She is dead, no doubt, but not gone. Still existing, hovering between rooms. That cord, reeling in his wall, always twisting and turning at the back of his mind. 

No, the connection is still there, his soul and hers, linked by a dark cord. 

He left her in that House. Abandoned her. He should have understood from the beginning what was going to happen, that wherever she went he was too, and if she was trapped away in a tower, he would feel it and be trapped as well. Cold, so damn cold, and that horrible pain in his neck. It makes perfect sense. 

It’s Nellie, trying to bring him back to her. The Ouija board and the ghosts and everything is from her begging him to come back, begging him not to leave her.

##### Day 614

As some sort of consolation, Luke emails something he wrote months ago to Steve, who emails back hours later to thank him, say that he’s excited to check it out. Luke reads over the email but doesn’t respond, switches off his computer and curls back into bed.

##### Day 626

Maybe the answer is as simple as running in the opposite direction. Far, far away. Abandon all of it; his life, his family, himself. Leave it all behind and become someone new somewhere that doesn’t care and doesn’t ask questions. He’s been there before, not too long ago. That special oblivion that was so easy to chase and that really only had one clear end, one that he avoided or that was stolen from him or was just never meant to be. He could find it again. 

A family comes in with a little boy who asks Luke if they’re going to put his daddy in a box, if he’s going to bury him like they did their dog, why he didn’t wait for the boy and say goodbye. Luke just says he doesn’t know. 

But he does, he does. It’s not his place to tell the boy that everything dies, every single little thing. And that in the end there is no choice. You don’t grant permission, and you can’t request delays. The most you can do is hurry the process, make it quick and easy as possible. Your daddy died because he didn’t drink enough water and had heat stroke, because he didn’t take care of himself and he wandered back into the house and passed out on the stairs and fell head over kettle down each step. And then his head busted open on the floor and that’s why Mommy looks so haunted, why she’s so quiet. He can’t tell the little boy that daddy is going into a box and Shirley won’t have to do too much because it’s closed casket. It’s a special box so the worms don’t get him, and the water doesn’t get him, and the dirt doesn’t touch him. They’re going to bury him deep, deep, deep down so he can’t crawl back up. And no one waits, because it doesn’t matter if you’re ready to let go. Death doesn’t belong to anybody and it doesn’t accept requests. 

Luke goes on a walk and thinks about running far away to another state where no one knows who he is or who he has been but he knows that The House would never let him.

##### Day 632

Luke wakes up with a face sticky under dry tears. His nose feels stuffed and his throat groggy, and he hopes that he wasn’t making noise. 

It’s almost reminiscent. He hasn’t woken up from a nightmare like this since he was a kid and he still had dreams about his mother with gray skin, holding his hand and making him sick, so, so sick and smiling so nicely while he shook. All those years ago, eyes cracking open with a gasp to a bedroom with too many children, all of them knowing when he cried, all of them too busy with their own nightmares to worry about his. 

The last time had probably been high school. He’d had his own room by then, Steve and Shirley already gone, Theo and Nell taking over their rooms. Suddenly so alone with his own space and something inside him rebelled against it, reeled and cried and begged them to come back. He’d snapped awake in the middle of the night with a thumping headache and tears, still wet, dripping down his chin. Hands fisted around the covers and his throat raw. 

His heart hurts now. He wants to scream, wants to wail and writhe and spit with how much and how long it hurts. 

With a groan, he drags himself up out of bed and slinks to the bathroom, stripping as he goes and leaving clothes abandoned in a trail across the way. Luke moves like an old man. His feet shuffle along the floor and his shoulders roll inward, hunched as if with illness. He leans into the shower and starts it, cranking the nozzle far enough to hot that he knows it will burn. Then he faces the sink, intending to brush his teeth, and catches his reflection in the mirror. 

It’s shocking to look at. Shirtless, he has a clear view of the spectacle that is his chest. His skin is purple with bruises, dark smudges blotched all across, like tiny nips to his collarbones and down his sternum, clustered dead center. Luke stares, head swimming at the sight. _Who did that?_ He looks down at his own hands, tries to match them to the marks. _Maybe, maybe._

He prods them, watches the color shift with pressure. Compared to the internal pain, the ache of the pressure is nothing and he digs his fingers in further until he is radiating, almost shivering, with misery. Luke releases a breath, looks into his own eyes. He looks like a dying man. He is a dying man. 

Luke slides down to the bathroom floor, back against the sink and long feet stretching before him until his feet tap the wall. His bare skin prickles with the cold and a harsh shiver rips through him. He curls his legs upward and presses his face into his knees to muffle a long wail. 

“I don’t want to die,” he says, eyes shut.

##### Days 642-655

Shirley announces over dinner that Aunt Janet is going to come down and stay for a few days. The timing of it is anything but random, and Luke sends his sister a knowing glare across the table. She ignores it, barely sparing him a glance as she talks about sleeping arrangements. Luke rubs at the dry skin over his knuckles and clears his throat. Forcing acknowledgment. Shirley’s expression is a smoking gun but he finds no guilt there. Kevin, however, is smiling pleasantly, waiting for whatever Luke has to offer. Funny, who sees what and who understands. 

“She can have the guesthouse.” He offers, ticking up the corner of his mouth. Shirley watches him carefully. “I don’t mind the couch.” 

After a brief discussion they work out their plan, deciding when exactly they’ll switch things around and how exactly it’ll all work out. Maybe it’s a little more militaristic than with a normal family visit. Like moving in a registered nurse for end of life care. Where do we put her? How is it going to work? 

No doubt this is supposed to be some sort of mother’s love situation. Luke is down, call Surrogate Mom to save him. It’s never worked before, he doesn’t know why it would now 

He hasn’t seen his Aunt since his dad’s funeral. She emails, sometimes calls. He responds distantly, never knowing quite what to say. She was the closest thing to a mother he had since the age of six but there’s something stilted there after years of disregard, embarrassment, and disappointment. Afterall, she took in five children. That was hard enough without having to deal with a defect. 

Not to say that she hadn’t been good to him. Janet had been like a mother, sweet and gentle and maybe, at times, a little overbearing. She hadn’t understood him, but neither had he. He was fully aware that she had done her best with him and he did truly love her and feel loved in return. Sometimes things just don’t work out, and at some point, he had snuck too much from her purse or came home just a little too late, a little too high, and he wasn’t welcome anymore. That was his own fault. 

It doesn’t take long to set everything up. A few days before her arrival, Luke transfers some of his clothes to the hall closet in the main house where they keep the vacuum, then scrubs the guesthouse down and replaces the sheets with fresh ones. Then he relocates to the main house to keep the guesthouse fresh for her.

##### Day 656

Aunt Janet drives down in a rental car, pulling into the driveway a little before noon. Luke watches from the window as she steps out of the car, straightening out her clothes before pulling a bag out of the backseat and starting towards the house. 

“Hey,” he calls, tilting his head to the kitchen but keeping his eyes on her. “we have company.” 

Shirley pokes her head around the corner, looking past him out the window, and a smile pools across her face. She brushes her hands on the front of her jeans, leaving smears of dish soap bubbles, and hurries to the front door. She yanks it open and there’s an immediate chorus of greetings and _oh it’s so nice to see you_ and _god, it’s been so long_. Luke watches them hug, waiting for the pounding feet to make it down the stairs and watching the kids bound around the corner, screaming and running to hug their great aunt. 

Kevin makes it down the stairs and catches Luke’s eye, his expression crooked, and Luke wonders if maybe the other man doesn’t like Aunt Janet or if something else is wrong. Kevin stands by Luke and watches the excitement, then arches a brow and shrugs when he notices Luke looking at him. 

“She can be a little…” he trails off, then shrugs. Luke knows what he means, though. Aunt Janet is a good person but she is also sometimes a little dramatic, a little ostentatious. He doesn’t know if she was like that before or if it developed as a defense mechanism. Whispers of _single mother of five kids_ fought off with weepy eyes and _my poor sister died and I took in her babies_ which might have morphed into a habit and spilled over into other topics. It didn’t really mean anything other than she tended to grandstand a little bit, often in a quiet voice and with her chin up. 

Eventually, the woman in question makes her way through Shirley and the kids and finds Luke. Her face changes into a soft, knowing grin and Luke feels his stomach bottom out, the dread he had been feeling for days blossoming, his suspicions confirmed. This is not just a casual visit from ole Aunt Janet. It’s some sort of quiet intervention. Great. 

Kevin makes lunch and they sit around the table catching up. After they eat, Luke walks her out to the guesthouse, hooking his arm through hers and listening to her chatter as they go. She cups her free hand over her eyes to block the sun and watches her feet as she walks. When they make it to the door, Luke tries to turn back, not wanting to isolate himself with her. It’s too early in the visit to have any sort of serious conversation, and he’d like to avoid it for a while if not entirely. But she catches his hand in hers and ushers him in, and he reluctantly follows. 

She settles her bag onto the bed and then acquaints herself with the space, opening empty drawers and studying the spines in his bookshelf. 

“This is where you stay?” She asks, peeking at him over her shoulder. He mumbles an affirmation, feeling suddenly like he’s confessing something shameful. She hums and nods, turning back to the books, brushing a painted nail across the spines. After a while, she drops her hand and turns to face him, a knowing smile perched lightly on her face. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?” 

She says it almost conspiratorially, and Luke can’t help his own smile. It reminds him of when he was just old enough to start partying, before fun became habit became problem, and she would roll her eyes and tell him to just be careful. Maternal warnings with an expression that remembered its own youth and said _alright, kid, have a little fun_. Things weren’t good then, but they were far enough away from bad that he can remember the times fondly. Back when they were an accepting aunt and an exasperating nephew instead of disheartened and delinquent. 

“What did Shirley say?” He says lightly, taking a seat in what is normally his reading chair. Aunt Janet sighs and settles on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Luke wonders when Shirley realized that she wasn’t going to be able to do any more for him, when it clicked and she started calling in reinforcements. Maybe it had been obvious as anything else he is always missing, or maybe it was hidden, under the table transactions and side-eyes. 

“Not much. She said that you weren’t doing well and asked if I would come see you.” Janet shrugs, but her smile is still in place. He’s surprised she seems so good humored. With time, perhaps, she found acceptance. Or became more sardonic. “Not that you ever listened to me.” 

That’s true, and he catches himself laughing. 

“There’s gotta be one bad apple,” he says, and Janet makes a face that clearly says _just one, huh_ , that makes him laugh again. “I’m fine, Auntie.” 

“Oh, yeah?” She says, arching one brow. Her eyes make a dramatic turn over the room and then land on him again. He follows her gaze, wonders what about this space might hint that he’s lying. Alright, he thinks, it’s a little drab. It looks a bit like a hotel. After this long, he probably should have put a personal touch on it, if only as a cover. 

Luke gives her his best smile, the one he always used when he was just a kid and swore up and down that he didn’t take anything from her purse or that he did not sneak out of the house and yes, Auntie, I promise this is it, I’m done now. 

“Maybe Shirley mentioned that I sleepwalk?” He gestures at his feet as if she will see through his tennis shoes and find the scars and new callouses. Her expression doesn’t change but she offers a small nod, and he continues. “It messed up my feet a little and now I get nervous about sleeping.” He’s said this so many times now to so many different people that it feels dry on his tongue, an old story. 

Aunt Janet considers him for a moment and then gets to her feet. He rises too, waits while she approaches him, her arms raising up. He slouches and pulls her into a hug, letting himself be soothed by her soft arms, the press of her hand rubbing circles on his back. When she pulls away, she pats her hand on his cheek, her eyes suddenly very tired. 

“Luke,” she says, voice serious. “I hope you know you can tell me anything.” 

Luke smiles and nods, ignoring the anger pulling at his spine.

##### 1999

At thirteen, Luke had nervously told his Aunt that he remembered that summer, even though it happened so long ago and even Steve, sometimes, seemed to forget the parts that Luke thought were most important. He told her that he remembered seeing things, started to tell her what his mother did that night, what she was trying to do, and Aunt Janet had stopped him so quickly that it almost made him dizzy. 

“You were young, Luke,” she said, her voice hard and warning. It was the same tone Shirley always used when he asked what she had been dreaming about. “You couldn’t have known what was happening.” 

Which he took as reassurance, not admonishment. 

He said “I wasn’t scared,” because that seemed like the most important part. In that moment he had sat at the round table with his mom, his twin, and his best friend and he hadn’t been scared at all, not even when Abigail started to choke and his mother had just watched, not surprised by any of it. He had looked at his mother, then at Nell, who had stared back with wide eyes, and he hadn’t felt scared at all. 

Aunt Janet reached forward and took his hand in hers. He felt his heartbeat smooth out, the nerves in his stomach settling. She was going to believe him. To listen. After all this time, it would be nice to be heard by someone other than Nell. 

“So much bad was happening at once, your brain didn’t know what to do with it, sweetheart.” Her voice was gentle but her eyes were hard. “You were overwhelmed. And sometimes when you get really scared, your brain alters memories.” She gave his hand a little squeeze but didn’t let go. Her eyes bore into his, waiting for him to falter under her gaze. To agree with her, accept her truth. 

He didn’t know what this meant, what she was getting at.

“What?” Discomfort was beginning to resurge in his chest. He didn’t want to upset his aunt, or for her to think he was crazy or making up stories. 

She licked her lips, leaned forward. “You made it up.” 

He didn’t shake his head or yell that it _did happen_ or beg her to believe him. She wouldn’t. He had never managed to change anyone’s mind before, and he knew that insisting was only going to make the situation worse. He’d tried to talk to his siblings before, though never about that last night, and they hadn’t wanted to hear any of it. 

“Ok,” he whispered, emotion rising in his face, burning around the edges of his eyes. He was like an overfilled well spilling over, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. 

“Don’t tell anyone else about this, Luke. Don’t spread lies about your mother. Not now. When you’re older, you’ll regret saying anything. Trust me, alright. That didn’t happen.” 

“Ok,” he said again, strained. His aunt inhaled slowly but didn’t release the air, stared at him with her mouth in a thin line. She was sad, too. He could see it in the lines of her face, at the corners of her lips. 

“Promise?” At thirteen, it seemed meaningless and a little condescending but still, he nodded. 

“I promise.” 

And he never had much to say to her after that.

##### Day 657

Shirley catches Luke in her office, one leg tucked up on the seat of the chair across from him and a book open and balanced on his chest. When the door clicks open, he nearly flies out of the seat and stares at his sister wide eyed before dropping his foot to the floor with an apologetic look. 

“Uh,” is all he can say before she is shutting the door behind her and starting in on him. 

“What the hell are you avoiding Aunt Janet for?” She doesn’t sit in the now free seat, instead canting her hip and crossing her arms over her chest. Her face is pulled into a disapproving frown and Luke finds himself unable to think up a good excuse under her glare. Truly, truly losing his touch. 

“I’m not,” is the best he can do. He sets his book aside but doesn’t rise to his feet, just stares up at her and tries not to look cowed. 

“Bullshit,” she snaps. It rattles his teeth in the same way it might for someone to hear their mother swear. 

“I don’t know, Shirl. I’m just not in the mood to socialize.” 

Shirley throws her hands up in the air, but her voice is hushed. “You see the woman once a year, _maybe_ , and you aren’t in the mood to sit in the same room?” 

_For fuck’s sake_. “How is it no one ever noticed that I don’t like our aunt?”

That stops Shirley cold and she does take a seat. Her withering look is gone by the time she drops into the chair, and she just stares at him like he’s somehow broken her heart. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to fix that. 

“You like her,” Shirley says, blinking away her surprise. Luke shakes his head. 

“I really don’t,” He reconsiders, then amends, “I love her, though.” 

She shakes her hands in front of her. _Hold on, stop_. “You do. She was the cool aunt. I mean, she let us do whatever we wanted. And she took care of us.” 

“Right,” Luke drags the word out, glancing at the door. “Look, you can feel however you want about her. Don’t let my relationship effect yours.” 

“But,” Shirley shakes her head, confused. “I thought you two were really close.” 

Luke snorts. “Where’d you get that idea?” He’s being intentionally flippant. It’s something he does when he isn’t sure he’s telling the truth. Covering up the possibility of a lie. He loves his aunt. She’s a good woman. For a long time, she did take care of him. But he doesn’t want to be around her. 

“I just—” she stops, her eyes glazing while she shuffles through old memories, hunting for evidence. Her search must come up blank, and her mouth pops open when she refocuses on Luke. 

“It’s okay that you didn’t notice.” He says, smoothing a reassuring smile over his face. Shirley shakes her head minutely, still stares at him like he dropped from the sky and she doesn’t know who she’s talking to. “Look, I’ll put more effort in. Okay?” The thought makes his stomach turn, but he tries not to let his discomfort show in his face. Shirley studies him a moment longer before nodding. “Great,” he says, and picks his book back up. After a moment, Shirley leaves him alone.

##### Day 660

Shirley must have said something to Steve. 

“How’s the visit going?” Steve asks, his voice distant enough that Luke figures he must be on speakerphone while Steve half listens, half works on something else. 

Luke considers the question. This morning, he had gotten up from the couch and quickly folded his bedding, tucking it away in the hall closet with his clothes and reordering things so that it looked like he was never there at all. Then he had gone about his normal business, slipping out for his walk and then taking a longer-than-usual shower and did everything he could to dodge his aunt, to not make eye contact. How to describe that without making himself look like a coward? 

“A little awkward,” He says honestly. Steve snickers. 

“I guess it would be.” Then, after a considering moment, “I never really understood your relationship with her. I mean, you two got along pretty well, but you also seemed…” Steve makes an uncertain noise, unable to produce the right word. Luke doesn’t think he has time to offer up the right one, doubts than any one word can explain. 

“I’ve never been very easy to handle.” Luke says instead, figuring his brother will just laugh and agree. It’s no secret that Luke was a nervous kid and a disturbed man. He had never made it easy for anyone to be around him, and the only person who seemed happy to make it through is dead now. 

“She tried her best, Luke,” Steve said lightly. Something sparks in Luke’s chest. Anger. Just the slightest edge of animosity. Maybe just the slightest dashed hope that someone would defend him, even if he himself agrees that everything bad that happens to him is his own damn fault. 

“Sure,” he grinds, kneading his chest. “everyone tried their best. Some might say telling a traumatized kid to shut up wasn’t the best way to go but, fuck, maybe wanting my family to listen to me was asking too much.” The words seem to just fall out of him in a bundle, flowing easy and true like all the things he keeps bottled up finally spilling out.

“Whoa, hold on,” Steve starts, and there is the click of switching off speakerphone. “Where’d this come from?” 

“No one ever believed me,” Luke spits, the words sharp on his tongue. Steve makes a noise, like he wants to say something but shuts his mouth with a dull clack of teeth. It takes a few audible breaths for him to work through it. 

“I know we… we shut you down a lot, Luke. But we never meant to hurt you. And, obviously things have changed a lot since then.” 

“I’m angry because I was the fucking leper of the family and I can’t just let it go. I was treated like a lunatic and now I’m just supposed to be okay?” 

Hesitation, then, “No.” The word rises like smoke, so quiet. 

Luke wishes he could just shut up, just tuck the words away and say sorry and pretend that this conversation never started. He doesn’t deserve to be angry, isn’t sure if he is actually angry at all or just lashing out because everything is starting to bury him. He’d more than met his siblings half way in terms of being a shitty brother and was past the point where he had any right to charge anyone with being a little rough on him as a kid. 

He presses the heel of his free hand to his eye and swallows down confessions he wants to whisper down the line, hoping to somehow convey his own helplessness, how sick he is at the moment. _I don’t mean it, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m not okay_. Instead he says, “I’m working on it, alright?” 

“I know.” Steve soothes, his voice thick with emotion that Luke wants to take back, to wipe away.

##### Day 662

Luke settles back on the couch, his blanket kicked down and gathered in a lump at his feet. He is starting to drift off when the front door ticks. His eyes crack open and he sits up, listening as the door is unlocked and starts to creak open. He counts, number ticking up and down as a dark figure leans in and stares across the room at him. 

“I forgot my book,” Aunt Janet says, then tiptoes past him and down the hall to the dining room. Luke’s heart pounds in his chest and he slouches back into the couch with a whoosh. 

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. 

She retrieves her book and shuffles back into the room, holding it aloft with a beaming smile. He smiles back and wonders if it’s all just in his head, if he’s the only one who had a bad relationship with his aunt and if she was on the other end thinking that everything was okay, that maybe Luke was a little cold but they were alright. It was just how rebellious teens were, and who really expects affection from a junkie? Maybe all this time she was happily oblivious and he was doing what he was great at- seeing and reacting to things that no one else saw. 

Janet doesn’t go back out the door, but slides into the nearby armchair so he can look up at her. She is wearing green silk pajamas and her gray hair is knotted at the back of her head in a loose bun, light strands poking out in every direction, and her glasses are perched low on her nose so she can look up over them. 

It almost takes him by surprise that she has gotten old. He should have noticed before, but somehow, he hadn’t and he’s left wondering when exactly he missed it in the first place. 

“Did I do something?” she asks, interrupting his mental tirade. He has to take a moment to reconnect with the present, and when he does, he wishes he could slip between the couch cushions and hide away. 

“No.” It’s not really a lie. She hasn’t done anything to him to piss him off that he can bring up without sounding unreasonable. _Yeah, I still have issues from when I was a preteen and I tried to tell you your dead sister killed a kid and wanted to kill two of her own children and you weren’t really up for listening_. He doesn’t even know if his despondency is still justified. If you hide a grievance for so long, do you have a right to be upset anymore? Shouldn’t bygones be bygones? 

She nods, eyes dropping to the floor while she thinks. When she speaks again, her voice is a melding of humor and worn sadness. “So why have you been hiding from me?” 

“I haven’t been,” but his voice is weak and he can’t look her dead on. 

“Sure.” 

Neither of them speaks and she doesn’t make a move to leave, just leans back in the armchair and closes her eyes. When it becomes clear she is waiting him out, Luke sighs. 

“I don’t want you to worry about me.” He says hastily. Her eyes tick open and she is back to looking at him, one eyebrow quirking up. 

“That’s my job, Luke. I know I haven’t been great at it, but it’s my job.” 

“Mm.” 

She clears her throat. “Are you sick?” 

Luke really wishes people would stop asking him that because he’s becoming less and less sure about the answer as time goes by. Still, he chuffs and waves off her concern. 

“No more than usual.” He hopes that makes some sort of sense but Janet pulls a face so it must be a little too ambiguous so he shakes his head. Her throat works and her shoulders slump a little with what might be relief. It feels like a cavern opens up in his stomach and he forces himself to look away. 

He twitches when one warm hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes gently. Closes his eyes and doesn’t lean into the touch. “Luke, no matter what, I love you. You’re always in my heart.” He hears her stand and start to walk away. Her hand starts to slide off of his shoulder and he catches it, carefully pulling her back. She looks startled but eases herself down to the seat so she is level with him. It takes him several tries to get the words out and she waits patiently, her brows furrowed with concern. 

Luke swallows, says, “Sometimes I get scared that everything is going wrong again.” And he hopes she understands without him having to say that he thinks he’s going to die. 

Janet’s face immediately softens and she cards her fingers through his hair, resting them at the back of his head. “You’re so much stronger than you think.” She leans forwards and presses a kiss to his forehead and he clenches his jaw to keep from telling her everything. He is certain, suddenly, that Janet wouldn’t say a word to his siblings, that she understands better than anyone how to keep quiet when it matters and let her children make their own choices. 

She stays until he falls asleep, returning to her armchair and mumbling about the book she is reading, barely loud enough for him to pick apart individual words. The whole time she rests a hand on the top of his head, soothing his hair down and telling him a story.

##### Day 1993

Not every memory is bitter. 

Once, when he was very little and was still waiting for his parents to come back for him, he woke from a nightmare to find his aunt already standing there, shushing him and pulling his arms around her neck. She had carried him down the stairs and to the living room where she settled down on the loveseat, him on her lap and curled up with one ear against her chest, listing to the steady churn of her heart. 

At that time, she had looked so much like his mom. Big eyes and a smile curved with jest instead of wisdom but close enough to be a comfort. Her dark hair was chopped just below her chin but still spun out in waves that, when held like this, brushed and tickled his face. And her voice was slightly lower, like she had gargled a handful of sand, but it was slow and precise. 

She had held him silently for a while before asking what he’d dreamt about, and he would tell her collarbones, eyes shut against the dully lit room and memory of the dream already beginning to fade. She hummed along, not really understanding but not needing to, happy to give him his time. 

Even after everything, she was patient. Forgiving. She never held it against Luke when he spoke against her sister, just told him to stop, begged him not to say. And maybe it was unfair of him to expect anything more than that. To hope for her to make more sacrifices when she was raising five troubled children she never asked for. There has to be something said for a person who takes in kids and never says anything against the man who abandoned them on her doorstep and seemed to resent her for obliging. 

He hadn’t been able to fall back asleep, even with her holding him. So she tucked him in with the purple throw blanket that she yanked off the back of the couch and spoke loudly as she crossed the house, calling out and telling him some story about her youth, something silly she had done with a group of friends and a car that _might not have been strictly theirs_ not leaving him in silence when she left the room. And she returned with two steaming mugs of tea and snuggled in beside him. He sipped his drink and listened to her talk- and, god, did she know how to talk, on and on and on about things she had done. Some things never change- until his eyes were drooping and the dream was just a dream. Until the dream had turned over and was as distant as her litany of stories. 

Even when he was determined to hate her, he remembered her warm voice and messy hair, her laugh and how her punishments were gentle, how she loved them all and took in a house full of children when she was needed and she treated them like her own. 

All these years later, he remembers the pain of not being believed. And he remembers having a mother even after his had died. And he loves her enough to forgive her.

##### Day 663

They walk Aunt Janet out to her car, shoving her bag in the backseat and then taking turns hugging her. She holds her three surrogate children for a long time, kissing each of their cheeks and giving them meaningful looks. And then she leaves.

##### Day 666

Luke wakes up and nearly trips mid-step, catching himself with his arms struck out, swinging in the air for balance. It takes him a groggy second to understand where he is. His socks are wet with morning dew and he somehow made it down the front steps of the guesthouse without falling and cracking his skull, and now he is standing in the front yard, staring at his mother. 

She is smiling at him, her harms extending out towards him, beckoning. Seeing her drops warm and shimmering in his chest. Like relief, like releasing a breath he has been holding too long. His mouth slides easily into a matching grin that makes him feel like he has so many teeth and like he could just float across the yard and into her arms. 

He steps forward, his heart thumping excitedly in his chest. And she’s gone. He goes still, one foot extended out in the grass, his hands twitching up as if to catch her, and she isn’t there. 

With a low sob, Luke hits his knees in the grass and lets a scream build in his chest but doesn’t release it.

##### Day 673

Luke tells Theo after dinner. They’ve moved from the dinner table and are digesting in the living room. Kevin and Shirley are quickly doing dishes and putting away leftovers, and Trish wasn’t able to make it tonight due to a late shift. So, it’s just the two of them, sighing on the couch and listening to the clanking dishes in the other room, to the muffled sound of Kevin and Shirley talking idly as they work. 

“So, how’s it going with you?” She asks, eyes closed, both hands resting on her stomach. He scratches his nose, decides that it’s better to just be direct with Theo, to not dress anything up or try to make it pretty. 

“I’m moving out,” he says, watching her face for some kind of reaction. She just nods, humming and slowly opening her eyes to meet his. He tries not to twitch. 

“When?” She asks, not looking particularly surprised or upset. He tries to find a balance between confusion and appreciation. 

“Not for a while.” Simple answer, he waits for her next question, feeling himself relax a bit more. 

“Where?” Her tone is slightly distrustful, and he wonders if she suspects something, if in her odd intuition she somehow saw the small cabin, saw him sitting in the unknowable rooms, working in the small garden. But she wouldn’t know it if she saw it, same as him. 

“Somewhere out of town. A few hours east in Northampton.” It’s a direct lie, yet the closest he has gotten to spilling the truth. It feels like stepping in shit, to be honest, uncomfortable from every angle. 

She makes a “huh” sound but then smiles, says, “That’s good, Luke. I’m happy for you.” He licks his lips, nods once and turns to watch Shirley and Kevin walk into the room, tired and full, hands pink from hot water.

##### Day 678

The wedding is modest. The ceremony takes place down a nature walk in the gazebo that marks the end of the trail. The gazebo is old but sturdy, its dark domed roof trimmed with white and held aloft by gray-brick beams that circle all around and drop into a base of the same material. Shirley is Theo’s matron of honor and Luke one of her bridesmen. They stand down and along the left side of the gazebo, and on the other side stand Trish’s bridesmaids and one bridesman. There are several rows of chairs on either side of the aisle, which is lined with bright red flowers that seem to explode from their vases. 

Trish walks down first, her father hooked on one arm and her mother on the other. She walks with small tears sliding down her face, but her smile is bursting and clearly pleased. Each of her parents plant a quick kiss on her cheek and then step to their seats. 

Theo follows. She is walked down the aisle by Steve, who watches her face the entire time they walk, whispering silently to her until her smile softens. Luke is amazed; he has never seen her so light. Before releasing Steve, she pulls him into a tight hug and then shoves him away to stand beside Luke with a laugh and climbs the stairs to meet her bride. 

They stand together in the center of the gazebo and say words that they wrote for one another. It is short and intimate and punctuated with a sweet kiss. 

As they descend the stairs and walk together back up the aisle, the trains of their dresses cling together, a careful sway of white and alabaster. The Crain siblings stand together and clap, their smiles wide. 

This is what it means to be happy. Luke watches his family, tries to memorize their faces. He wants to remember.

##### Day 688

Luke pulls his fishbowl of chips and buttons out of the cupboard and stares at all the colors between his hands. They’re supposed to mean something. Supposed to show some sort of improvement, resilience. Strength that he doesn’t have. Promises he isn’t able to fulfill. 

He carries the fishbowl out into the other room and holds it above the hardwood floor, staring down as the colors shift and shuffle over one another. Counts the months. They click and clack and he holds the bowl up just a little higher, level with his head, and then lets the whole thing drop to the floor. 

The crash is horrible. His chest constricts at the small explosion around his feet and all the skin at his neck and shoulders seems to tighten. There’s a sensation like his eardrums pulling in towards his brain and a melting sort of heat that makes him fuzz up and he closes his eyes to keep from falling into the broken glass. 

After a beat, he looks down again. The bowl has broken into large, thick shards. The buttons and chips seem to have scattered across the floor, some still rolling and hiding in nooks and crannies where he will likely never find them again. Little pieces of himself hiding away, like a promise that he will always be here. 

He stares at the debris for some time before dropping into a crouch and gathering all the shards up in his hands, separating glass from chips and dumping the glass into a nearby trashcan. He walks carefully, eyes scanning the floor, and picks up the buttons and chips between his forefinger and thumb, collecting them in a pile in his palm. When he finds all he can, he crosses the room to his desk and drops all the colors in, lets them scatter along the bottom amongst pencils and loose staples, then shuts the drawer back up.

##### Day 696

It is past midnight when the growling starts. A low rumble just outside his window, behind his desk. He can’t pretend that he isn’t there, doesn’t dare reach out to turn off the bedside lamp to prove that he is awake, to acknowledge that he can hear it. The growling. It starts and Luke’s eyes tick over to the window, half expecting the heavy paws to be pressed to the glass, the bright eyes looking back in at him. But there is no face, just that heavy growl. 

He knows what it is saying: _let me in, let me in._

He won’t, though. Can barely move to set his book down, to turn his head away from the window. Even if he wanted to let it in, he is locked down onto his bed with the weight of his own fear, the sick thud of his heart, quickly, quickly, quickly. 

Then the click of claws on glass, knocking on the window. Then the slide of claws on wood, searching, begging. A shadow passes by the window and Luke can hear the heavy thump of four paws circling the house, the rhythmic whack of a wagging tail striking the outside walls. 

The noises start again at the front door. Long scratches on the wood, the snap of teeth and that hungry growl. Patiently searching, demanding entry. 

_I know all your tricks_ he thinks, but doesn’t speak out loud. Doesn’t dare to piss it off, to antagonize something he knows has the power to blow the windows in. Surely if it wanted to it could just get in on its own. No, this is a game. This is intended for torture. 

Luke forces his eyes shut, counts forwards and backwards and clenches his fingers in the blanket, drags his legs in closer to his body and pretends to be asleep, pretends that he can’t hear a thing and that he is completely alone here, that there are no dogs. 

One high whine and a final clack of claws and the house goes silent. Luke waits, spit gathering in the corners of his mouth, and then sobs into the quiet, sleeps with his light on.

##### Day 702

In the years after everything happened, Luke avoided looking at The House. But he still remembered it. Could almost smell the old wood, the mildew scent in the basement, the perfume in his parents’ room, the clean lawn. That feeling of walking down massive hallways that seemed to expand into a maze. Door after endless door, all but one unlocked. Light pooling in through gauzy windows, pearly on the floor, fairy dust in his mother’s hair. And the noises that seemed to belong only to the children; banging and crawling and the tap of a cane. And all those angry dogs. 

And it was almost unchanged when he returned. Dustier, covered in white sheets but still dressed up and looked after. Darker now, empty of living and excitable children but still somehow full. The smell of lighter fluid, the burn of fire so quickly lapped away and swallowed up. Taken in like everything else. 

Everyone that matters circled in the Room. Eyes opened, eyes closed. 

It’s easy to recreate. He starts from the bottom, settles in the border and the step down into plucky grass that spins out and away, tall trees gathered around to conceal. And then rising arches and entryways set between even stones and row after row of brick. Windows, round then square, lit and dark. A tower to the side, shooting up, circled by evenly spaced windows. Jutting walls, uneven but fitting, as if everything had collapsed so carefully to create this, the whole strange architecture falling together on its own without origin, a House that built itself, or simply appeared. Became another thing in the woods, just beyond the rolling hills. Half castle, half estate. And then higher still, a pointed roof and the long stems of chimneys puffing smoke. 

He stops drawing, looks down at what he made. It looks back up at what it made. 

Luke spits, curses himself and knocks over his chair in his hurry to get up, kicks its upward legs and stumbles back to the bed. He falls back onto the comforter, shaking as if fevered and panting, stomach clenching sickly. 

Gathering himself, Luke stomps to the desk and gathers the drawing in his hand, tears it savagely and dumps the shreds into the small wastebasket. 

“Fuck off,” He says, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as hot tears pool down.

##### Day 718

Luke spends the whole night staring at the ceiling, hands twined together over his chest, picking idly at his cuticles. Earlier, he had tried to read but found that exhaustion blurred and smeared the words away, so he shoved the book aside. Now he just listens. Pulls apart his own hands, doesn’t notice the blood, and slows his breath so he can just listen. The croaks and chirps of small creatures outside the window. And just there, just settled at the back of his head, the spinning cord.

##### Day 722

He starts his walk earlier than normal, stepping out when it is barely even morning and heading off. He pushes past his regular pace, alters his route just slightly so he walks around town in a long arc, curving past houses he normally doesn’t see, heading around the back of the bookstore and then over in a dome until he has whipped around and is walking in a similarly round path on the opposite side. 

It takes longer than normal to make it back home, but he doesn’t head in. The sky is still dark. The streetlamps radiate an orange glow and he walks under them, counting the steps until he is once more washed under their warmth, then starting again as he falls back into shadow. 

Dark. One, two, three, four. Light. 

After returning home a second time, he starts off again. This time he widens the arch, circling farther out into the town. He does this twice more, then widens the span again. The sun has risen and birds are making their chatter, certainly starting to recognize the strange, frenetic man below. 

As his route expands, the hold on Luke’s heart seems to loosen. When he is just beyond Hutchinson’s the pain is so slight that he almost feels normal. It’s like his heart is guiding him out, or that The House is beckoning him closer. 

He steps up to the guesthouse and then turns on his heel, panting and ready to set out again, but is stopped by someone else’s shifting feet. Luke tilts his head to see Kevin, arms crossed over his chest, watching from the main house porch. He is in his athletic gear, shirt already dampened and dark with sweat. When Luke meets his eyes, Kevin lifts one arm in a stiff wave. His face is quirked unhappily and Luke knows he is caught.

Luke takes a step backwards up the steps, staring at the other man as he retreats back. Kevin watches him twist his arm and open the door behind his back, nodding silently when Luke steps into the house and gently shuts himself in. 

His body is trembling, feeling like warm rubber. He staggers to the shower and dips into warm water, groaning as his body comes alive with pain. Afterwards, he pulls on sweats and a t-shirt and falls into bed to doze. 

The trip, however, wasn’t a waste. Luke finally understands.

##### Day 726

The Crains and their spouses board a Friday flight to California. They’re heading out to stay with Steve and Leigh for Luke’s two years clean celebration and to help prepare for the baby and to hopefully be around when she is born. 

( _any day now, any day_ , Steve says over the phone)

Luke is up and ready before the sun. He checks the clock and paces. It’s too early. Shirley and Kevin are probably up and around, but he wants to give them time, hates feeling like he is intruding, feels like he should be gone by now. Let them live their own lives. He sits back on the bed, unties his shoes, takes them off, then redoes them. 

It’s still too early. He gets up and goes on a short walk, strolling around the block and letting the cold nibble on him. The sky goes from purple to soft blue and he returns, entering the main house to find Kevin getting his shoes on. 

Kevin eyes him for a second and then smiles, returns his focus on his task. Kevin is one of the few people he knows who can talk your ear off but also exist comfortably in silence. He doesn’t always feel the need to talk about things, even, sometimes, the glaring things. Maybe he learned that from Shirley: how to give people their space. 

Shirley walks past with their two sleepy children and loads them into the car. Kevin puts a hand on Luke’s arms before he can follow them out, and Luke nearly swallows his own tongue with surprise. He looks at his brother-in-law and mentally pleads with him not to say anything, waits nervously as the other main searches his face. Then, with a quiet sigh, he pats Luke’s arm and slides through the door, mouth pressed into a hard line. Luke locks the door behind him and quickly climbs into the backseat with the children. 

It is just over a three-hour drive to New York, and Trish and Theo trail behind in their own car until they pull into the driveway of a small house just outside the city. Luke is nervous the whole drive down, clutching his chest as if in anticipation of an agonized flare. But it never happens. He thinks it might be a small allowance. The suggestion of mutual understanding.

Kevin’s sister opens her front door with an enthusiastic scream. Her two dogs push past her feet and Kevin jumps out to wave their claws away from the car. Luke watches from the window as Kevin’s sister throws her arms around her brother and flails him around like a doll, stronger than her size might suggest. Shirley chuckles to herself before popping the door open and joining them, Jayden and Allie in tow. 

Luke stays in the car, looks at anything but his family as they all say their tired goodbyes, exchanging hug, kisses, and promises of pictures. He looks at his knees and jumps when the backseat door farthest away from him snaps open and Theo slides into the middle seat, closely followed by her wife. He’d almost forgotten they were going to join them in the family car for the rest of the drive. 

They board the plane with no problems and Luke sits by Trish and Theo, closing his eyes and listening to their banter, occasionally jumping in with comments of his own. 

He is pretending to be a complete, fully functioning human. Maybe no one really expects him to be whole when half of him is dead and he hasn’t really improved much in the last two years, but he has felt himself slip, has shown himself to be falling apart. Revealed the deepness of his crumbling, how rotten he is on the inside. And now he has to make corrections. Make sure everyone thinks he still might get better, that he has the potential to improve, though it may be slow going. 

It is a five hour and twenty-three-minute flight from New York to California and Luke dozes through most of it, his head resting against the window until Theo shakes him awake, not too gently. He blinks until her face is clear and blinks again, harder, when she says that they’re deplaning.

##### Day 729

“There it is,” Luke says to the empty car. He pulls over onto the side of the road, along a line of full trees. He looks both ways and crosses over, bare feet on rough tarmac. His feet are dark on the bottoms and blue on top, the same as his hands. 

As soon as he stands down the aisle of the house, he recognizes it. Home. A new home, a real one. The home they were always meant to live in. They could have been a family here. 

The walkway is lined on either side with blooming roses, and he rubs a petal between his thumb and forefinger, dips closer to smell their soft scent. 

There is a white kitten on the porch that watches him approach. White with specks of gray across its forehead and all down its back. He moves up the three steps carefully, and the kitten loses interest, yawning and sliding its front paws forward in a long stretch. 

He knocks on the door. Three careful raps, turning to look down the path behind him as if something will come trudging up. The door thrusts open, and he looks down to find Nell. Nell. He looks down and there is Nell. Her face is pale and flushed pink and alive. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he croaks. He lifts both of his hands, uncertain but wanting to reach out. She isn’t dead. Of course not, how could she ever be dead? How could he ever believe he existed without her? Of course, of course. 

She knots her hand in his sleeve, eyes alight and desperate. The touch is warmer than he expected and he nearly sobs with relief. 

“Your heart,” she screams, “your heart.” She yanks at his shirt and he grabs her wrists, stares at her in wonder. 

_Am I dead?_ He wants to know. 

“Please, please, Luke! What’s wrong with your heart?”

There’s a bird singing in the house, just over his shoulder. He hears it. 

Nell grabs his jaw when he starts to turn towards it, stares at him with terrified eyes, tears streaming down her face. 

“Come home. Come home.”


	3. Chapter 3

##### Day 730

He wakes up with a gasp. 

His shirt is wet. The fabric clings to his hand, warm and heavy. A thrill shoots up his spine and he rises into a sitting position, peels his hand free with a distressed groan and switches on the bedside lamp.

Blood. He’s bleeding. His shirt is torn over his chest. He yanks his shirt up and finds a circle of cuts, five crescents surrounding his heart. He had dug his own nails into the flesh, tore himself open. 

Disturbed, Luke tosses the ruined shirt into the bedroom garbage and sneaks across the hall to the bathroom. Once the door is locked behind him, he quickly flicks on the shower, jumping under the stream before the water is totally heated up. He lets the water beat him for some time before he starts with the soap. 

He considers showing the marks to Shirley, telling her about his strange dream and the state he had woken up in, but doesn’t really know what she’d be able to do. It would just worry her further, which, ultimately, seems pointless. 

At around 5 PM, they gather around the table for cake trimmed red, marking two years clean. Six hours later, at 11 PM, Baby Eleanor Laurel Crain is born.

##### Day 731

They trail up to the hospital and follow a nurse’s directions to the right waiting area. There are other families gathered with stuffed animals and happy tears and cameras. Excitement and worry all over. Luke wonders how their group must look. Theo looks detached, almost bored. He knows that as soon as she sees the baby her face will light up, but for now she is reserved, putting up a front. Shirley is shaking one of her legs. Luke watches the wall and feels like jelly. 

The last baby whose birth he had been around for was Jayden. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do, or where to stand, or if he was just supposed to keep a safe distance away and smile his approval. 

It was different when Shirley was the mom because he hadn’t known yet exactly how motherhood would change her but he knew what was allowed and how close he was allowed to get, was only surprised when he was actually made to hold the tiny, squirming infant. 

Leigh, of course, will be a different matter. They had been relatively close once, or at least comfortable enough with each other that she had let him sleep in her and Steve’s guestroom some nights, and she would smile and be welcoming, never really seeming uncomfortable with her husband’s junkie baby brother. 

But things have changed. He remembers asking for a room for him and Joey, the dull disapproval and disappointment in her eyes, familiar but on a new face. One more domino. He doesn’t know if she’ll want him there. 

Eventually, a door opens and Steve steps out. He is wearing jeans and a sweater, which surprises Luke for whatever reason. He had imagined his brother emerging wearing scrubs, bright yellow scrubs that fly out behind him, his hair tampered down with a little cap. But Steve is wearing his own clothes and walks forward with a bright smile, almost manic joy overtaking his face like a released spring. 

Theo and Shirley immediately rise to their feet and meet him, their own smiles bursting. He opens his arms and they welcome the hug. A laugh gusts out of him and he squeezes them both hard. Steve pulls back and his eyes lock with Shirley, expression more open than Like has seen it in years. They titter, like a door has opened and they’ve stepped through. Some strange link that only they understand, plugging in to a new connection. 

Then Steve looks at Luke and gestures for him to join them, one of his brows quirked questioningly. Luke smiles back and stands, walking across the room with his hands in his pockets. 

“She’s perfect. Holy shit, I’ve never seen something so perfect! She’s just… Oh my god! I loved her already but I had no idea. No idea!” Shirley laughs, wraps her small hand around his wrist and pulls him into another hug. He laughs into her shoulder and briefly lifts her off her feet. 

It almost makes Luke uncomfortable, seeing his brother so uplifted, so open and happy. It’s good and he’s pleased but he’s never seen such a look, such free emotion, on his brother. 

“Can we see her?” Theo asks, nudging Steve with an elbow. She is smiling, her face paused in a snicker, forever amused. 

“Yeah, of course.” 

Eleanor is small, just as small as Luke remembers Jayden being, but maybe a bit smaller. Leigh is holding her, body heavy with exhaustion but also alight with the joy of motherhood, of finally seeing the face of her child and hearing her voice breaking into the world. Right now, the baby only warbles, eyes tight lines, lips puckered. She is still, her movements slow and subtle. 

Leigh smiles at Shirley, who has her hands twined together under her chin, standing near the bed and beaming at the new baby, and asks, “You wanna hold her?” Shirley blinks at Leigh and her expression seems to crack, an edge of sadness or relief squeezing through before she rights it and nods excitedly. She sits down in a nearby chair and Steve carefully, so, so carefully, takes the baby from Leigh and walks her over to Shirl, who gratefully accepts her. 

Shirley has always looked right with a baby, something seeming to take over her, pulling out all of her wrath and replacing it with something warmer, energy channeled into cradling and rocking and soothing. 

Then it is Theo’s turn, baby moving from one set of arms to another. Theo smiles at the baby, sticking her tongue out as if to make it laugh. Steve snorts and looks back at Leigh, who responds in kind. 

And then four sets of eyes flit to Luke. 

“Alright, your turn,” Leigh says gently. Luke looks at her, searching for a hint of concern. He finds nothing but her approval. 

“Uh,” is all he can make himself respond with, desperately looking from Leigh to his siblings, landing of Steve. Surely Steve, sensible, skeptical Steve, won’t let Luke hold his new baby. Not flakey Luke. 

“Sit here,” Leigh says, indicating the side of the bed. He looks back at her and then Steve again, doing everything in his power to project his fear. Steve studies him, eyeing him up and down for a long moment, and then arches his brows, shaking his head as if to say _you’re not running from this_. 

And just like that, Luke is sitting on the edge of Leigh’s hospital bed, Shirley and Steve on either side of him, carefully showing him how to hold his arms, Shirley holding his right elbow the entire time as Theo gingerly passes the small bundle over to him. 

It’s like his brain shifts to the right, the whole world floating off kilter like old, damaged footage. She is a warm weight in his arms, but simultaneously it is like holding nothing, something weightless, effortless. She is swaddled but shifts under the blanket and he looks at Steve for help. 

“Okay,” he says, _okay, I’m done now_. He nods and gestures down at the baby with his chin. Steve just smiles and says nothing, eyes locked on his child. Luke looks at his brother for a few moments before slowly redirecting down at the baby. The baby. Little Eleanor Crain. 

His heart swells, his whole chest aching with expansion. There is no denying that, though holding something so small and fragile in his unreliable arms is terrifying, he loves this new person, this new little human. She is pudgy, and, though Luke thinks he might be able to pick out hints of his brother’s features, that she is fairly nondescript, a pink pudgy baby. 

 

~*~

 

Sometime later, Steve brings Leigh and Eleanor home. 

Luke stays as far away as possible, clinging to walls and peaking around corners like some sort of goblin. Eventually, he hides away in the kitchen with Theo and the in-laws while Shirley helps upstairs. 

Frankly, Luke doesn’t really understand why two new parents would want so many guests crowding around their house already. When he mumbles this to Theo, she just shrugs and says, “Our flight isn’t until Saturday.” 

Trish speaks quietly, like the baby will hear her clear across the house. “Sometimes people have midwives or grandparents help out early on. It takes a village, I guess.” 

Kevin, the only person in the room who might have something insightful to say on the topic, just smiles and nods. There’s a gleam in his eyes that appeared just as Steve eased through the door with a baby carrier latched in both hands, the kind of look people get when they haven’t held a baby in years and their own children claims they are ‘too old’ to be held.

##### Day 733

Luke doesn’t sleep, not for a long time. The whole house is quiet enough that all he can hear is the occasional car sloshing by and his own steady breathing. The television is off but the blue light from the modem shines blue in the darkness and Luke looks over at it, staring across the tired room and into the square. It doesn’t blink, or flicker, or do anything particularly outstanding other than exist in the nighttime, no more or less than in the daytime and yet much more boldly present. 

Sometimes, one of the kitchen appliances gurgles. Quiet and burbling up. He suspects it is the sink, imagines something sitting deep in the pipes and clamoring around for an exit. Or maybe the inner workings of the dishwasher, or the ticking oven. A whole room making careful noises, muted in the light but charged as soon as everyone lays down to rest. Empty space, widening. 

In the quiet, the hazy dark, Luke feels something burgeoning. A slow escalation, something right in the floorboards and slipping between the walls. This, he thinks, is a safe house. The place where his longtime skeptic brother and his serious and sturdy wife have lived and are going to raise their new baby. There is nothing here, he assures himself, as something slowly grows out. 

This is a home; a real home, a safe home. 

A high scream breaks the silence and Luke rolls to his side, feet planting on the ground and his torso rocketing up until he is half risen, one hand gripping the back of the chair and the other yanking his blanket off. 

He stands very slowly, waits. The screaming goes on and Luke listens for the pounding of feet. The baby is crying. It isn’t his place to soothe her, and he wouldn’t know how. But he waits, standing barefoot in the living room, one, two, three steps away from his makeshift bed and a quick sprint to the nursery. But he shouldn’t, so he waits for the sound of Steve or Leigh stirring, for murmured voices, gently arguing about your turn, my turn. 

But he hears nothing, just little El crying. Her voice rattles unevenly, bursting out in a high-pitched racket and then spinning off into something lower, almost gravelly, before shooting out again full force. And sometimes she huffs in between screams, tiny chest fluttering and building steam, frustration shuttering in and out. 

He closes his eyes, guilt leaden in his chest, waits and waits and waits and then starts down the hall, following the wailing until he is outside the nursery. The door is open, and, when he peeks just down the hall, he can see that Steve and Leigh’s door is cracked open as well, but there is no movement. They’re exhausted, he thinks, and then enters the nursery. 

He walks until he is at the crib and leans over, peaks down at the bundle. Her eyes are creases over pudgy cheeks, tiny hands balled into fists and her mouth, shaped into an O, is releasing horrible screeches unlike anything Luke has ever heard, her small body squirming in its blanket. Carefully, he reaches down and places his palm so gingerly on her little chest, barely making contact. 

“Shh, shh El,” he whispers, running his fingers over her soft hands. She makes a curdling noise and Luke inhales sharply and then slides one hand to support her neck and head, the other lifting her up and against his chest. Walking steadily, like the baby in his arms is a dangerous bomb and any jagged motion will take the whole house down, will spray him out in chunks, he lowers himself into the rocking chair by the window. 

“I don’t understand babies,” he hums in his most calming tone, sitting as still as possible, so afraid he will drop her, or won’t hold her right. “I should have just woken up your mommy and daddy, like a good uncle.” He rocks her, then stops. And she does too, relenting with a final shudder, then making a burbling noise that sounds, at least to Luke, somewhat satisfied. He lets out a breath and scoots forward, staring down at her round face and getting ready to rise back to his feet, to redeposit her small body into the crib and to flee back to the couch where he can pretend this never happened and that he isn’t this irresponsible and stupid. 

“Weird,” Steve says, and Luke’s whole body seems to clench, muscles tensing to keep himself from jumping in fear, everything in him powering against his reflexes in an effort to not jostle the newborn. 

“Holy shit,” Luke grinds out between his teeth, glaring up at his brother. He lifts his arms slightly, “Take her,” his voice urgent.

“Okay, hold on,” Steve laughs, but even his laugh is muffled to keep the baby calm. He treads across the room, his socked feet almost completely muted, and they make the exchange. Luke stands up with a relieved sigh, flicking his wrists as if the baby weighed two tons and he was aching with the effort. Steve rolls his eyes, then turns back to the crib, mumbling something to El as he lowers her down, brushing her thin hair with his thumb. 

Feeling like an invader, Luke turns back to the door and startles, shoulders lurching up to his ears, terror shooting down his spine. 

Leaning against the doorway, half of her face showing behind the frame, half hooded eyes staring sadly at Steve and El. A woman. Luke’s brain shrieks, stretches and pulls back in his skull at the sight. Reeling against the strange figure, against her dull gray skin and wet, ratty hair that tangles down over shoulders. Against those heavy eyes that droop in her bloated face, bulging out of the sockets and dropping forward, almost hanging out. 

His skin seems too loose, suddenly, as if a chasm is opening in his skull and everything on his exterior is fleeing from what is revealed, what is trying to leak out of his insides, his horrible brain, vile mind. 

Grinding his teeth, throat fighting against a scream, Luke lets out a hollow grunt that grabs Steve’s attention. Luke twitches, turns to look at his older brother, who is staring at him with one lifted brow, curious but unconcerned. With some effort, Luke focuses on Steve and drops his shoulders, clears his throat. 

“What’s that?” Luke asks as calmly as possible, gesturing conservatively at the doorway with his elbow. Steve follows his gaze. Doesn’t jump, doesn’t pull back or grab his baby. Just looks, confused and trying to figure out what Luke is asking him, eyes trailing from one side of the door to the other. 

“What?” Steve eventually says, a line appearing in the middle of his forehead. Luke turns back to the woman, who has taken another step into the room. Her skin is thick, almost bubbled like overheated caramel, protruding from her bones in rivulets and curves, thin and loose on her shoulders. One of her hands keeps her balanced, pressing against the wall. Her fingers are swelled and soft, smashed in like aged fruit and leaving a darkened stain on the wall. 

Luke inhales slowly through his nose and steps closer to the woman, one step, two steps, three, four, five and he stands right next to her and points at a shelf of stuffed toys, listens to her haggard breath as she leans into him, one wet hand clasping the back of his shirt, begging, begging. He points at an aged toy, one with only one yellow eye and patchy black fur, pointed ears. 

“Oh,” Steve snorts, shrugging, “I guess it was one of Leigh’s old toys. Her mom brought it over. I don’t really get it.” He takes one final look at El and then flashes the thumbs up and sneaks out of the nursery, sliding past Luke and heading down the hall to the gurgling kitchen. Luke hesitates, stares at the crib and waits, waits, waits until the weight of the woman eases and then vanishes. He turns slowly around, finds that she has gone, and trails after his brother, heart thumping. 

This house is not haunted. There’s no way it could be. It’s new. He knows, remembers when Steve was talking about moving in. There’s no room for ghosts, especially not after all this time. No reason for that woman to be here, no reason for Luke to see her. 

Luke massages his aching chest and catches Steve’s eye. He drops his hand and looks out the window, across the street and to the yellow lamps, the bright lights lining the road, brightening the walkway and the neat grass. 

“I thought you got that checked out?” Steve says suspiciously, and Luke shifts uncomfortably in his chair. A mug of tea rolls across the table and Luke warms his hands on it, takes a careful sip and makes a show out of rolling his eyes. 

“I did. It’s just not gone yet,” and he forces humor into his voice, smiles at his brother like his concern is unnecessary. Steve studies him for a moment longer and then adds sugar to his own mug of tea, stirs it noisily and sits next to Luke. 

“Is it better, though?” He asks, blowing away rising steam and then taking a careful sip, then a larger gulp of drink. 

“Yeah,” Luke lies easily. It’s always been easier to bullshit Steve, probably easier than lying to any of his sisters. Steve just sees whatever he wants to see; logic where there are ghosts, healing where there is infection. Luke is very carefully not angry at this. Not anymore, after all this time. It’s hard to be mad at the others when Luke himself is the worst of them all, angrier and more erratic than the other four ever were, screaming and rattling in his bones and writhing for an exit, running at the walls and breaking his own skin. 

And yet, he’s here. 

“Good,” Steve says, nodding to the countertop and taking another gulp. He rubs his eye with the heel of his hand and yawns. 

“So, Leigh likes old stuff?” Luke asks, trying to sound only vaguely interested. Steve makes a face, makes a so-so gesture with his free hand. 

“Eh, heirlooms maybe.” He says, sounding unconvinced himself. 

Luke nods and, scratching his cheek, asks, “Anything weird?” This is not discrete and Steve arches a brow, side eyes his brother and waits for elaboration. “Like, uh… like a necklace from her dear grandma who… drowned? Or, I don’t know, was thrown in the river tragically.” 

After a confused pause, Steve laughs, runs his palms over his face and shakes his head at his little brother. Luke smiles too, waits for an answer. 

“No. She has a wristwatch from her great grandfather, though. And a, um, quilt. On the wall in her office. I don’t know if that’s actually an heirloom.” Steve rests his chin on his hand. His eyes slide shut and he looks like he’s dozing, already fading out of the conversation. Luke slides his tea away from his hand, out of the way in case he slips. 

“Where’d the quilt come from?” He asks, pushing his chair up and gently easing Steve from his own seat, guiding him down the hall. On their way past the nursery, Luke peeks in and is relieved to find it empty, still, with exception to the small baby. 

“Hm. Her mom made it. I guess that isn’t an heirloom.” 

“I don’t really know either,” Luke says, releasing Steve into his own room and watching as he stumbles to the bed and slides in, careful not to jostle Leigh. Luke returns to the couch, but doesn’t lie down, just sits and stares at the little blue light, thinking about the woman that he saw, and how he, alone, had seen her. 

The night goes on, and he nervously waits it out.

##### Day 734

“Hey.” Luke stands, shoulder resting against the side doorway, arms crossed protectively over his chest. Steve still has a glow, a warmth over him that radiates paternity. Luke remembers when their dad was that way, standing with their mother and smiling at the five of them, beaming and bright and surely the happiest man alive. 

Shirley is packing up the car while Kevin rouses the kids, makes sure they don’t dawdle. He can hear the quick patter of young feet, Kevin’s mumbled voice as he follows someone from one room to another. Their flight is hours from now, but the Harris family takes punctuality seriously. 

Leigh is feeding Little El in the nursery and Steve is shoving dirty laundry into the washer, looking slightly dazed like he doesn’t know how to do anything not related to looking at a baby and caring for his healing wife. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks, measuring out detergent and pouring it in, easing the lid down and making sure he has the adjustments right before hitting start. He turns to Luke with a smile. 

“I’m moving out of the guesthouse. Soon.” Luke pauses, watches Steve’s face go from dazed to confused to displeased in just a few moments, so quickly that Luke is almost stunned with the flow of it. His mouth pops open and he hums before continuing, “Shirley and I talked and we both think it’s a good idea that I, uh, go independent now. I mean, it’s been a long time.” 

“I don’t understand,” Steve says, stiffly, looking over Luke’s shoulder like someone is going to jump out and reveal that it’s just a lame prank. Luke stifles his annoyance, tries to understand his brother’s concern. 

“It’s been over two years, Steve,” he says, calmly, looking into his brother’s eyes, “I’m in my thirties. It’s time to live alone.” 

“No one is judging you for living with Shirley. I mean,” Steve stumbles, gearing up for an argument but clearly uncertain how he can angle it without sounding tyrannical, without holding Luke prisoner or treating him like a child. Too late, probably. 

“It’s not about other people. I want to live alone. I need to do this,” he strains his voice, tries to convey his seriousness through his eyes. Steve holds his gaze for a few moments longer before sighing, breaking the connection and kicking a loose, dirty sock. 

“Alright. Alright, that- you’re right. Sorry, you’re right. It makes total sense for you to go out. I forget how much time has passed, I guess.” He taps his fingers on the washer, then lifts his eyes apologetically, smile slight and cautious, “Maybe I still see my younger siblings as babies. It’s a hard habit to break, even when we’re all getting old.” 

Luke chuckles, lets Steve grab his arm for a moment before releasing him. A gesture of apology, of comfort. 

“Do you know where you’re going? Maybe an apartment? I know a great place,” Steve says, half teasing. Luke smiles but shakes his head. 

“I’m looking outside of town. In the country.” Luke says, keeping the words ‘woods’ and ‘hills’ out of his mouth, trying not to twitch or at any way hint at where he is going. 

“That sounds,” Steve pauses, searching for something unoffensive, and settling on, “desolate.” 

Luke snorts, doesn’t say _you have no fucking idea_ , just grins and shrugs. “I miss the country. Having a yard. All I used to do was walk around and explore, remember? I just want to do that again.” Luke shrugs and Steve studies his face, looking for something beyond his careful words. Luke tries to relax his shoulder, pretends his has no secrets in this, nothing to hide. 

“Can I say something without you getting mad?” Steve eventually asks, his face abruptly becoming serious, stern. It’s a face that Luke is much more familiar with, one that he caught on many late-night visits, the one that he’s heard through years of hushed phone calls. 

“Sure,” Luke says, cautiously. In the end, he’s an adult, and everything he does is ultimately his own decision. He can keep it all a secret and deal with the ire of his loved ones, but they can’t force his hand either way. He has signed the papers, he is locked in unless he himself says otherwise. 

“If you ever feel like you’re slipping… if it gets worse, you call me. Okay?” Steve’s hand is suddenly cupping the back of his neck, giving him one quick shake, his eyebrows raised. 

“Sure thing, Steve.” Luke lies, like snapping a twig underfoot. He matches his brother’s solemnity and Steve scans his expression for a few seconds before nodding, apparently finding whatever he was looking for, and tugs Luke in for a brief hug. 

It’s too late, he thinks. I’ve been slipping this whole time, my whole life. The only person who ever listened is dead.

##### 2012

The first time Luke went to rehab, he already knew it wasn’t going to work. He tried to explain this to Shirley and Steve before they broke the bank on him, swearing up and down that he wasn’t ready, that some fancy-ass facility wasn’t going to help him any better than if they just locked him in the basement, because he wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to quit. 

They responded with a loud and resounding _Nellie_. 

Undoubtedly, unsurprisingly, she found him. He hadn’t been running, really, just wanted to be alone. And she tracked him down to a gas station of all places, took his hand and walked him out to her car. He sat in the passenger seat, trying to press the tears back into his eyes with the heels of his hands, and she switched on the air conditioning before tugging his hands down. She didn’t smile. Her eyes were big and sad, and her mouth was set in a stern line. 

“I should die,” Luke spit. He pried one hand free to rub at his face, trying to smear the tears away, to cover his red eyes, “I don’t wanna do this anymore. I’m sorry, Nell. I don’t wanna- I- I’m so sorry,” and he started to sob, lip quivering and throat pulling like he’d swallowed lead. 

Nell roped her arms around him and pulled him in close, cupping the back of his head and moving his face into the crook of her neck. 

“No, Luke,” is all she said, all there was to say at the moment. And just like that, he was resigned to his fate. 

Later, he didn’t understand why the whole family thought they needed to see him off. Maybe they thought he was going to be so wrecked by the process that he would just fall dead and this could be the last time any of them saw him. Doubtful they would get that lucky. 

They walked in a crowd to the front door, Luke and Nell trailing behind, her hand tucked into his. He tried not to imagine it as a leash, tried to take it as it was: support, love. Before they made it inside, Nell tugged him down so she could speak into his ear, her breath ticking his jaw. 

“It’s weird,” Nell says, “how we’re all together. We’re never all together, not like this. And it’s because you’re getting help.” 

“Yeah, that was the goal from the start,” he says, dry but with little bite. 

Nell laughs and whips the hand holding his so their arms both roll lazily in the space between them. Theo snaps her head back to look at them, a line between her brows and Shirley turns back much slower, then grants them a small, slow smile. Steve keeps his face resolutely forward. 

(It’s almost hard to remember now, but when Nellie laughed her whole heart went into it. A nice, flighty sound that shook her whole body. Her eyes would close, creased into thick lines, and her lips would spring back to show two rows of shiny, even teeth. He tries to imagine it, damns himself when he can’t quite manage it. A series of parts that won’t meet.) 

And then they breached the building, and Luke tugged his sleeves over his hands and wished he could just fall straight through the floor where the earth could crush him. 

The whole thing was a misadventure.

##### Days 735-747

Luke watches his family, the small house he has been living in with the two young children, the brother-in-law, and the sister who graciously and warmly took him in when he needed them and never asked him to leave. Who worry and love him. He watches them and loves them and memorizes them. 

Luke tells them that he found a place and he is vague about where it is, says he wants to move out there alone and be _really_ alone for a few weeks while he gets it all organized, but promises he will have them over when it’s ready. Reluctantly, they agree. 

He thinks about the pain in his chest, now bruised and surrounded by scabs, and knows it will be gone soon.

##### Day 748

He doesn’t think it is the right choice, but it is the only one he can make. He starts to pack up his few belongings into boxes he brings home from the local library, boxes that used to stack donated books before they were marked and shelved. He deconstructs them and takes them back to the guesthouse, now has a stack of flat cardboard collecting under his bed. He slowly builds them up and sets them in a row under the window before organizing his belongings carefully away, sealing and labelling each box and shoving them, when complete, closer to the door. 

He rents a moving van, a small one, and shoves his things in there, along with his deconstructed bed and mattress. Then he stares at his work, stomach sick with discomfort, and slides the door shut. 

Goodbyes are uncomfortable. There’s a hidden edge below each word, and his sisters look at him with untrusting eyes, their arms folded over their chests. He can’t blame them. Their worries bare weight, and if they knew where he is going, they would find a way to keep him here. They’d probably be right in doing so. 

Kevin pats his arm lightly before latching on and tugging Luke into a hug, managing to trap Luke’s arm between them and then patting his shoulder again before taking a step back. Luke kneels to speak to the kids, and looking into their faces, surprised to find sadness there, he is almost tempted to stay. 

“I love you,” Allie says, then, “I’ll send you drawings. And write you letters.” She wraps her small arms around his neck and nearly chokes him with the ferocity of her hug. He kisses her cheek, feeling strange but pleased with the gesture, and then gently pushes her towards her dad. 

Jayden crashes into him, dropping his forehead to Luke’s chest and knotting his fingers in his Uncle’s shirt. “Don’t leave,” Jayden whispers. Emotion surges in Luke’s chest and he can’t make himself respond, just pulls the boy in closer and holds him for a quiet moment, only releasing him once Luke has collected himself and can smile. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Jayden,” is all he can make himself say, uncertain if he’s telling the truth. Kevin takes the kids back into the house, nodding at Luke as he goes. Luke watches them walk away and only turns to face his sisters once the door has clicked shut. 

Shirley says, “Call as soon as you get there,” and wraps him in a hug. He leans into her, letting his eyes fall shut and squeezing back hard. 

“Thank you for everything,” he mumbles into her shoulder, feeling the slight rise and fall of her breathing. She shakes her head and releases him. 

“You can always come back.” She says, and her voice is almost harsh with emotion. She shoves her hands in her jacket pockets and steps back. 

Next, Theo steps up to him with a pinched expression, reaching out one bare hand. Expectant. Luke gently grabs her forearm, her sleeve between their skin, and then arcs his other arm around the one flat at her side so her hand dangles at her hip, the other pressed to his chest when he leans forward and hugs her. When he pulls away, her expression has crested over worry and landed somewhere more akin to outright dismay. 

“Cut it out,” she says dully, just so he can hear. And he shrugs one shoulder uncomfortable and steps carefully away from her. 

He climbs into the U-Haul and waves one hand out the window before carefully pulling out and heading away. 

The feeling in his gut is hard to define. It isn’t fear, which normally strikes him in the heart and sends it off like a rabbit. Nor dread, which lays heavy over his shoulders like an old shawl. Whatever it is may be best described as disquiet; cold around his stomach and trembling little shocks torpedoing down his back. The nerves last the entirety of the drive and he taps his fingers against the wheel and tries to drown out his thoughts with the radio. 

He had never been to the Dudley home before now. Back then, Abigail had never wanted him to visit her in her own home, promising that his house was more fun and that her parents were too strict to let her have friends over, especially for sleepovers. And caretakers don’t generally invite the children of their employers over to their houses. 

It is smaller than he had imagined. Pleasantly small. A white, one story house with green bordering and three stone steps up to the front door. The windows are old wood and look like they were cut into the house crookedly, the almost gray wood mismatched with the green door. There is a short gravel driveway that breaks from the road and rolls just to the right under a fat tree, and Luke pulls up behind what is apparently his new-to-him truck. 

Bordering the house is a weed infested garden bed, dead plants stiff and yellow, jutting from the earth and bending brokenly. The yard is wide and circled in by the surrounding forest. He knows that if he walks around back, there will be a garden where the Dudleys used to grow vegetables, and off to the left there is a dirt path that leads to a fork, and that one side of that fork goes to the pond, and the other to The House. 

He drops out of the U-Haul, locking it out of habit, and then crunches up to the truck. He pulls out a second keyring, this one with one silver key with a black top, a bronze key for the house, and a small blue key he doesn’t know the purpose of. He slips the silver key into the little truck’s door and quirks it, smiling when the lock pops up behind the window. The door is stiff and he has to yank hard several times before it flies open, nearly sending him flat on his back. The inside smells, oddly, like Mr. Dudley, and Luke is surprised that he remembers what that is (oil, sweat, paint). He pokes around for a second, opening the glove department and finding a box of tissues, some papers, and an old bible. Behind the seat is a snow scraper, a lone spark plug, some blue rope and a thick, wool blanket. 

Satisfied, he slides back out of the truck and turns to face the house again. He considers it for a moment, then circles around to the back. Just beyond the trees, he can see a beige shed. He treads out, shouldering past the trees, feeling his new broadness as he dodges what he once easily slipped past. The shed looks like it might be tin, and there is a chunk missing below the door where an animal might have chewed through. The door has a padlock. He tugs at it, stops when the whole shed rattles at his ministrations. After a thought, Luke pulls out the small blue key and grins when it fits easily. 

There isn’t much of interest. Rakes and hoes and a garden hose. Two filing cabinets that he cracks open to find old documents, mostly financial and business-related. There’s a long wooden bench stacked with tools and work gloves, and the floor is lined with chemicals, oils, paints and stains. Luke explores for a bit and then backs out, redoing the padlock and then returning to his yard. 

He walks across the grass up to the front door. The first, outer door is a jewel green, and once he finagles it open there is a second door, this one a screen that creaks egregiously when he pulls it away. 

The inside smells like dust, and like something else that he can’t quite place. He imagines that might be an effect of life, that some things just seep into the walls and are forever absorbed.

Even with the Dudleys’ furniture removed, Luke can navigate the house by room. He walks between doorways, entering the house directly into the family room that was big enough that it must have fit a table with chairs, probably near the row of three windows to the right side, then he steps into the attached kitchen that connects the front and back of the house via a short hallway with two doors at either side and one at the back. The Dudley bedroom on the left, a small bathroom on the right, and Abigail’s room straight on. 

He only opens that back door once, sees what it is and quickly backs out. 

He knew that all those years ago, Abigail had had her own bedroom. She had asked once if it ever bothered him to have to share with so many different siblings and to never have his own personal space or quiet. At the time he had shrugged, not jealous or frustrated with his siblings much at all, assuming they were nice and didn’t exclude him or pull any pranks. At a young age, he hadn’t yet realized how much he relied on the noise and bustle of his siblings, how much he loved their racket. 

He sends Steve and Theo texts to let them know he made it, then calls Shirley and talks to her for a few minutes. He feels fairly confident describing the house to her, knowing that she likely never saw the Dudley house either and wouldn’t make the connection. Luke tells her about the shed, about the green door and the overgrown garden. She sounds pleased with his descriptions and says, quietly, that she is proud of him. It would be very nice if he wasn’t keeping secrets. 

Slowly, he drags boxes into the house. He didn’t bring much, and they stack easily by the front door. When he finishes the sun is low in the sky and he decides to unpack in the morning. 

Once the U-Haul is empty and he is alone in the house, he stands, holding his breath and listens. He stands with his boots on the wood floor and feels the trees press in, their branches hissing in the wind. The walls click as they settle and the little kitchen occasionally gurgles. Altogether, it is pleasant. Homier than he expected. 

Luke sits on the floor in what once was the dining area, right under the line of windows, staring to the opposite side of the room and out into the yard. The yard stretches a few yards out each way and then bursts into woods, heavy trees nearly swallowing up the whole house. One small opening expands into a mossy grown-over path that leads directly to—

Luke stands up and goes to the kitchen, stares at the small, green stove. He switches it on, then back off. He didn’t bring food. He thinks about the little ford ranger pulled right up into the yard and decides to skip dinner altogether and wait until morning to drive into town. Not in the dark. 

For a while, he stands barefoot in the living room and stares out the window into the night. A lamp reflects badly in the glass, leaving a bright yellow mark in the center of his vision, but the rest is a flat indigo that pools around the deep greens of the trees. He watches for movement in the gaps but finds nothing, stares and stares and stares until he aches. 

Luke steps into the hall and looks at each door, considering the last one before shaking his head and going into what is now his bedroom. He had managed to drag a mattress in here, and it sits naked and unmade in the corner of the room, pressed against the wall and away from the window. He sighs, opens a few boxes until he finds bedding and sets to work. 

Maybe this wasn’t a great idea, he thinks. 

Sure. Moving to a house mere minutes from The House and not really telling anyone exactly what he was doing and why and what it all seemed to be adding up to. Maybe that wasn’t a great idea. Maybe. 

He finishes with the bed and sets up a bedside lamp on the floor up by his pillow. After a little searching he finds a box stuffed with books, shuffles them around until he finds a new one and settles in under the blankets. 

Without heat, the small house is chilled. He burrows deep under his comforter and an extra quilt, rucking the blanket under his chin so only his head and arms are free. 

The first sleep in the Dudley House is impossible. He turns pages in his book late into the night, itching with exhaustion but finding that each time he gives in and closes his eyes his body ticks and aches oddly, like it wants him to be aware. 

The turning in his head is much slower now, almost a kind drone, and he only notices it in the complete silence of his room. After a while he starts to feel pleasantly heavy, his body’s tiredness beating out any warnings. Exhausted and relieved that his chest pain is practically gone, he falls into deep sleep and doesn’t wake for some time.

##### Day 749

He wakes to sunshine. His lamp is still on and he curses, switching it off and rising. His book is sat open beside him and he dogears it, sets it on the floor and resets the bedding so it is loosely made. Luke ignores the silence of the house and grabs new clothes, heads to shower and change, scrub his teeth. 

It is a twenty-minute drive into town. The radio crackles with static, occasionally spitting out a few notes or a bit of a tune before phasing out again. He is nervous stepping out of his car and walking into the local grocery store, but no one seems to recognize him. He doesn’t really know why they would. He half expects an old carpenter from his childhood to turn the corner and catch him trying to decide if he prefers canned peaches or pears. 

He pays for his groceries, smiling at the man behind the counter and rolling the cart to his truck, stacking the groceries in the tub strapped in the bed, and then returns the cart to its station before driving away. 

He explores the town slowly from behind his wheel, turning around corners and watching people walk along the sidewalk. He reads the names of businesses and takes note of what is where. 

Before he leaves town, he stops by a small bookstore that catches his eye, peruses the aisles and picks out two books with worn covers, one fairly common title that he’s been wanting and one a bit more obscure. 

He returns to the truck and sits, watching people enter and exit different local stores, smiling and talking and shivering in the cold. It’s like they don’t know. Like none of these people are aware how close they are, how bad it is out in the trees. He doesn’t understand how they can all just happily exist, going about their weekends and dreading going to school or work on Monday. 

Blowing air through his clenched teeth, Luke pulls out of the parking lot and returns to the Dudley house, rushing the groceries in and locking the door behind him. He stands in the doorway, grocery bags gathered at his feet. He counts, ignores the silence. 

It doesn’t take long to put away his purchases, and he stuffs all of the bags into one bag and hooks them in the currently empty closet, then looks around for something to do. 

After a while, he puts in his headphones and cracks the front door open, looking left and right, then straight ahead before stepping completely out. 

His boots crush dry leaves as he paces to the garden, a gnarled messy thing just behind the house. He looks around for anything salvageable, makes plans to buy tools and seeds, to makes something new in these awful woods.

##### Day 750

Uncertain what to do with himself now, Luke puts on his tennis shoes and heads outside. The air is fresh, and he spends some time just walking in idle circles around the house, poking the toes of his shoes into the soft garden dirt. 

Following vague inclinations and faded memory, Luke delves into the trees once more. He goes slowly, carefully measuring out just how far he goes down the path, then turning away from The House and to the side until he finds himself at the pond. The water is still, and when he steps close, he can see small creatures both deep and resting on the surface of it. 

When he was a boy, Luke would have dreams of his whole family gathering around this lake and having a picnic. Even after everything, the death and the running, he still liked to think about the cool stillness, the grabby mud along the bottom. It was one of the few places he could think back on pleasantly, somewhere he had only ever gone with Abigail before things went wrong. And sometimes at the end of the dream he would walk through the dark, guided by turning lights, and his dad would find him and take him home.

##### Day 752

In truth, the Dudley House is more than Luke ever expected to own, and he surprises himself by liking it. There’s a rustic quality to it and it has a small history that he only knows peripherally. He quickly grows comfortable with the quiet clicks and bangs that racket through the walls late at night, and the heavy darkness that settles in the rooms once the sun goes down if he doesn’t switch on the lights hastily enough. 

It is a small house, but Luke establishes some rules for himself. Once it is dark, he doesn’t look out the window, certain that he will find something peering back in at him. Abigail’s room is to be left alone. He got one look in, and that was enough. There are places that people don’t belong, and that is one of them. Don’t turn the corners too quickly. Sometimes he is certain that there is someone standing in the doorway, watching him curiously. The house is empty; no dead would choose it over its larger neighbor. Still, he doesn’t want to risk it. 

Before he sleeps, he rests an open book over his eyes and counts, imagining his mother, father, and each of his siblings as he does. The house clicks reassuringly, listing along with him. Luke doesn’t open his eyes and stare up at the same ceiling the previous owners used to see when they, too, had trouble sleeping. He tries not to imagine their sleepy eyes opening to morning sun, blinking at the wooden panels he sees now.

##### Day 756

It doesn’t take long for Luke to break a rule. In fairness, it is possibly the silliest one. 

He shuffles through the hall under darkness, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed and wriggling his hands before him to catch obstacles. Managing to get to the kitchen without damage, Luke fills a glass with tap water and swallows it down, idly turning and slouching back against the counter. 

His eyes automatically seek out the only light in the small space, channeling up from the silver square of moonlight on the floor towards the window. For a moment, he stares out without incident, blissfully forgetting his own rule and staring out at the nighttime turned a shimmering blue under the stars. 

And then, something shifts off to the side, just at the edge of the window. Luke goes still. Then, like a man possessed, he places the empty glass in the sink and tiptoes across the room, leaning his side against the wall and angling himself to see to the right of the window, in the direction the shape was heading. 

Recognition rises the hairs on Luke’s neck. His mouth goes dry, and he watches the shape turn and walk along until she is out of view. Heart pounding, Luke backs away from the window and walks stiffly to the door, shoving it open and then waiting, as if she is going to turn the corner, excited by the sound, and walk in. A moment passes, then two, and he steps out onto the steps, then down one, two, three and into the grass. Again, he holds his stance, this time holding his breath and listening for her. Uncertain if she can make noise, if he should be able to hear her feet pass through the grass. Nothing but the chattering of his own teeth. 

Luke lets out a slow breath and starts again, pressing one shaking hand to the aide of the house as he walks along, eyes struggling to see ahead of him in the dark, even with the light of the moon. When he makes it to the back of the house, he finds her fully in view. 

She is tall and lithe, nearly translucent yet somehow seeming to illuminate the space around her in a hazy blue. Keeping what Luke decides is a safe distance, he trails behind her as she dawdles in the flowerbed, strolls between bushes of dead tulips and piles of weeds. He remembers finding her in the tree line all those years ago, watching each other at a distance, gradually meeting near the old shed where she had kept herself half hidden, eyes darting around nervously. 

Though no one maintains the garden now, it thrives, blooming with bright green and different flowers bursting out, reaching into the aisles and nipping at ankles. He knows this is wrong; there are only weeds in his garden. Yet she walks in flowers. 

She has grown, somehow. But he can still tell it’s her. Somehow along the way he came to know her, built a friendship he had rarely formed before or since, something quiet and joyful that belonged only to them, these secret meetings near the trees, her soft voice like the twinkle of chimes. 

He breathes, watches the curve of her shoulders. She’s a woman, dead but not stilted. He doesn’t pretend to understand or care, just says, “Abigail.” 

She goes still. Luke can’t imagine that she wasn’t fully aware of his presence the whole time. He doesn’t ask her to look at him or turn around, sits uneasily in their silence and waits for the next step. 

Eventually, still faced away, she says. “Luke.” 

Chimes, more so now than in life, her whole spirit seemingly lifted by the cool wind around them. Her body has sprung up, limbs long and thin, skin a pool of fog. She is tall but skinny, light on her feet, movement not so graceful as a delicate hop from foot to foot, leaping across the floor. She has become a bird woman, delicate but free. Her hair dangles down in long, blonde tresses. 

She is dead, he reminds himself. There is nothing really here. 

“I’m cracked,” he says, running a hand through his hair roughly and stumbling away from her, trying to turn away but afraid to lose track of her, afraid to show her his back. 

“No,” Abigail responds carefully, and she is closer to him now. She lifts her hands as if to press her palms to either side of his face, but doesn’t make contact. He can feel her even from this distance, a chill seeming to radiate from her flesh. 

“This isn’t The House,” His voice is a rasp, nearly a sob. “You can’t be here. You can’t leave.” 

Luke is almost begging for it to be true, but he also knows better, remembers seeing her at the funeral home, standing in the corner with a wistful look, all trailing behind him. All reaching out. After all of that, part of him had always hoped it was his brain triggering wrong, something sparking when it wasn’t supposed to after years of drug use and malnutrition. But maybe it had all been real. 

“No,” she says, and then, “Yes.” 

Luke steps carefully into the garden. He can’t take his eyes off of her; her face, not quite so round as it once was, and her arms stronger, wiry with muscle. And she is tall, her legs pulling up into a long waist and then a strip of a neck. She is probably 5’9, just a little shorter than him. 

His body shivers and he stops with his bare feet sinking into the soil, standing between a row of flowers and fresh green weeds. Her eyes are duller than he remembers, her whole face a solid plate, armored and muted. Her voice is a dusty murmur. 

“I didn’t want,” he starts, then bites his tongue and takes another step, one foot ticking forward while the other remains in its place. 

“No,” she says again, shaking her head and letting her hands lower back to her sides. Carefully, he reaches for her, lets his trembling fingers press into her chilled shoulder. She is somehow solid, a real woman who is dead but here and looking up into his eyes, patiently letting him investigate. 

“You’re dead.” He breathes, furrowing his brows. This doesn’t make sense, he knows that it doesn’t but he can’t quite figure out which part is wrong. The small, guilty part of him wonders if he might have doubted himself, if he wasn’t so certain that Abby had ever been a real girl, if he thought, in some small way, that he had been one of the ghosts all along or just a figment of his imagination. A lonely boy’s friend, an adventure partner, someone who listened and spoke to him like a real person. Someone who was only his, someone he didn’t have to share. 

Abby’s eyes soften and she says, “Yes.” 

“Say something else,” he pleads, voice trembling, his entire body roiling and churning. This is Abby, somehow, and he wants her to be Abby, to tell him and story and laugh wickedly, to take his hand roughly and drag him through the woods. 

Her mouth opens, then shuts. Slowly, she reaches for him again, this time meeting her mark, bumping his knuckles with her own until his turns him hand to the side and they tangle their fingers together. Breath shudders through his nose and his eyes well up with unshed tears and, finally, she says, “I wanted to go with you.” 

Luke’s mouth pops open and releases a low, agonized sob. Fat tears pool over and spill down his face, colliding at his chin before dropping and leaving dark blobs on his shirt. Abigail watched each tear with a dismissive expression, her thumb brushing soothing circles over his knuckles but her eyes void of sympathy. Afterall, this is her tragedy. He is weeping for her loss. 

“I can’t- Abigail. I’m so sorry. I can’t make up for this,” he hiccups, ducking his chin and looking at his own bare feet wedged in the dirt. He’s going to trail it in, no doubt. And he hasn’t bought a broom yet. 

 

~*~

 

Luke is back in the house but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t remember turning away from Abigail, taking off his shoes, or getting into bed. But here he is, tucked under the blankets. All of the house lights have been switched off and he is lying in complete, still darkness. He rises slowly, gathering the blanket in his hands and staring out into the dark, listening hard for movement, waiting for the slightest shift in the air to send him running. Nothing. Eventually, he slides his legs over the end of the bed and stands, waits for any change and, when none comes, goes to the front room, turning on lights as he goes.

##### Day 757

Things change. 

The small house he was falling in love with suddenly feels like an enemy, like something hulking over him. Soft noises that he had thought of before as the house settling are now a quiet language, clicking out a subtle conversation through the walls. He walks along on eggshells, his eyes on the floor, ignoring what might be heads peeking through open doors. 

He jumps at his own shadow and shuts his eyes against the girl at the window. 

There isn’t really a reason for him to be here. He doesn’t belong. If Luke was a reasonable adult of sound mind, he wouldn’t have just wrenched up his whole life and run away into the woods, to a damned place that he doesn’t want to see, let alone live near. To a house that was given to him without explanation. It doesn’t make sense, _it doesn’t make sense_. 

It doesn’t take long for Luke to decide to leave. 

He made a mistake, and is changing his mind. He doesn’t take any of his belongings, just grabs the keys off the counters and slips out the door, staring hard at the truck as he approaches it, carefully unaware of anything standing in the trees, or sneaking up behind him. His trembling hand makes unlocking the door a job, but he manages it and jumps into the seat, pulling the door closed and nailing his eyes to the steering wheel until he has the truck started and reversing out of the driveway. 

When he finally lifts his eyes up, he just sees the house, door agape, watching him flee. Luke drives away, foot heavy on the gas, pushing the rattling old truck to speed down the road. He avoids the town, goes around it and finds himself on a long, dirt road turned towards Shirley’s house. 

Explaining this will be hard, and maybe he should be ashamed or worried about his mental health. But he’s been through it all before and he saw Abigail. Whether she was there or not, he saw her. And based on past history, he’s willing to bet it wasn’t just in his head. 

The drive would be peaceful if not for the crackling, burning pain across his chest, like someone flicked ambers onto his shirt and they’re seeping into his skin. He breathes through it, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Keeps his mind focused on going home. On what to say when he gets there, because he must get there. The seeds of pain break and expand out. Connecting around his heart and then constricting in. Luke’s breath starts to wheeze, and the pair surges at the center of his chest. He groans and digs his nails into his sternum, leaning forward so he presses against the steering wheel and starts the horn blaring. There is no give, and he dizzily wavers on the road. He crosses over the center line, then eases himself back, panting and looking out the windshield through slits. 

Luke stops his green truck on the side of the road just outside of town. Gets out, walks along the grass, then turns and walks back to the truck. Then he vomits on the top right tire. He white knuckle grips the rim and slowly lowers himself down, careful not to kneel in his upchuck, and huffs. Air come heavy, shudders through his whole body. He can feel the muscles in his stomach working, searching for something else to evacuate. He gags, jerking forward and letting yellow bile fall in strings from his teeth. A foamy line plops in the grass but doesn’t break, connects his mouth with the earth and quivers like a guitar string. Luke swallows, groans, and breaks the line with his fingers, rubbing the filth off onto the knees of his pants. 

Trying to rise back onto his feet, Luke swerves dizzily and winds up fully supported by the truck bed, hooking his arms over it and leaning into the hot metal. The heat makes him feel worse, but it also anchors him, something solid to grab onto in the midst of spinners. Luke curses, spits again, and closes his eyes. 

After a while, he shuffles to the driver’s side door and lays himself across the seats, head resting on a balled-up jacket on the passenger side, and sleeps for three hours before someone knocks their fist against the window and he rises his head, looking towards his feet, and sees a sweaty man looking it, hands cupped on either side of his eyes like binoculars. 

“Sorry,” Luke says, though the man can’t hear him. He slowly sits up, swipes the back of his hand over his mouth to clear away any remaining ick, and rolls down his window. “Sorry, I was sick,” he says again, clearer now. The man nods knowingly, though he can’t possibly understand. 

“Gave me a scare. Must be feeling pretty shitty, huh?” the man chuckles, and his hairy arm rests on the door, one hand now inside the truck. Luke smiles and apologizes again. The stranger seems friendly enough, just doing his due diligence with no apparent ill intent. But Luke would still like him to go away so he can return to his rest, or do the responsible thing and return to the Dudley house. 

“Yeah, migraine. Couldn’t keep going,” Luke lies with a shrug. If he told the man the truth, it would probably get rid of him faster. Unless he was a _really_ concerned citizen and would instead try to wrangle to crazy and man take him to a hospital. 

“Ugh,” the man groans, face creasing sympathetically. “My wife gets those pretty bad, too. You need a ride somewhere? I can pull your truck with us.” He gestures back towards his own, larger truck and Luke’s heart feels a little warm. Odd, how in the midst of all this he finds someone so good. A truly kind person. 

“That’s really nice,” he says, trying to project his sincerity without coming across as odd. “But it’s gone now. “All better.” He taps his finger to his temple once, twice, and then drops his hand. The other man smiles uncertainly, but taps the door twice and then lets Luke go with a friendly wave and a goodbye. 

Luke swallows, watches the man pull his own vehicle around and past him. Then he starts his own truck up, wheeling it around, and goes back to the Dudley House. 

 

~*~

 

Abigail is at the tree line. Her pale hair shimmers in the sun and her white arms are tucked behind her back. The hot breeze doesn’t tug at her hair or clothes, and she doesn’t shine with sweat, or smell either good or bad. She is like a void, existing and not all at once, his mind twitching to either complete or erase her. Abigail is something to behold and almost painful to look at. 

Luke watches her from the truck and suspects that she can see him watching. He gives in, eventually, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking around the house until they are looking at each other. 

“Abigail?” He says, not stepping closer. She remains a silent onlooker, hands flat at her side and expression vacant. 

Without warning, Abigail turns away from him and starts through the trees. He inhales sharply and watches her go, half-expecting her to start skipping ahead, to pop out of existence and then become again a few feet ahead. But she doesn’t, just walks as simply as she ever had. Hesitating for only a second, he follows. 

She doesn’t lead him where he fears she will, but veers to the right, taking him along a different and grown over path. He realizes that they are going to the pond only moments before they arrive. Without pause, she steps into the water and goes to the center of the pond, turning to look at him expectantly. 

“Me?” He asks, and then kicks off his tennis shoes and socks. He goes for the buttons of his jeans and then hesitates, rolls up the legs instead to right over his knees. Then, silently admonishing himself not to, he steps forward into the water. 

It’s cold enough now that he needs to wear a coat and gloves on his walks to keep from turning pink. His breath fogs before his face and then dissipates, rushed surges dancing out in a rhythm. Stepping into the water pulls the air from his lungs and his teeth immediately start chattering. He paces around, trying to adapt, and watches Abigail watch him. She brought him back. 

“Do you remember swimming?” He asks, pushing mud around and letting it press between his toes. He didn’t roll his pantlegs high enough and the bottoms are getting wet, the jostling water licking up and nabbing them. 

She doesn’t answer. He looks over to see what she is doing and finds her staring straight down her own legs into the dusty water, eyes dark and intent. Hunting, he thinks. She’s going to reach in and pull up a fish or a frog. Then she’ll stick it right in her mouth and start chewing while it is still writhing, and he’ll watch her bite through slippery skin and brittle bone until she has her meal. 

Abigail doesn’t though, just raises her head to look back at him, her expression glassy. Dull. Maybe this is just a dream and he’s going to wake up in his bed again, going to jump right out of the covers and curse himself for ending up like this, for being so gullible and stupid. Then he’ll turn on all the lights and watch the windows until the sun comes up and he can leave. Because surely after all of this he will finally leave, really leave. 

Instead, Abigail lowers herself down until she is sitting, her back ramrod straight, elbow deep in the water. She doesn’t smile mischievously up at him or laugh at the sudden chill; nor does she splash or kick her feet. She sits and watches him, then brings up one hand and slicks it through her hair, which doesn’t seem to hold any moisture. After a moment’s consideration, Luke follows her lead. 

The water is cold, and it rushes through his clothes, leaving him shivering and heavy. The mud grabs and holds him to the ground, suctioning on. He copies her, bring up a dripping hand and runs it through his hair, dampening the strands and sticking them at a smooth point behind his skull. 

They are quiet, each watching the other. Maybe he really has gone insane this time. After everything it would make sense for him to tip over the edge, to finally crack and drive himself into the strange world where a ghost will take a dip in the old pond and just stare and stare like he has something to say. Wait and listen just like Abigail always did, but without the accompanying grin. 

Luke closes his eyes, digs his fingers into the mud and feels remote. Completely singular. Just one thing in the woods at night, the sky open over him and hundreds of trees gathered around to see what spectacle he brings. There is no House, no Abigail. Just Luke in the woods, sitting alone in a pond, fully clothed. 

“Luke,” she says, low and patient. He clenches his eyes harder and nearly cries, feeling his throat tug with emotion. She is here, she is. Regardless of if any of it is real, Abigail is with him. He reopens his eyes and turns to see her pale eyes still on him, looking frozen as if no time has passed. 

“Talk to me a little,” he begs, voice hoarse, moving in the water so he is farther away from her, his shoulder blades bumping against the rim of the pond. For a moment he doesn’t think she will grant him his request, barely seems to comprehend that he said anything at all. She doesn’t blink or show any signs of recognition. Then she shifts forward and begins pulling herself closer to him, scooping her hands through the mud and letting her legs float up behind her. Eyes intent on him like some sort of creature. He feels his shoulders rise, stomach clenching anxiously as she pulls up before him and sits up. 

“It was true,” is all she says, and then her mouth falls shut and she looks back at him as if waiting for a response. Luke blinks, shakes his head. 

“What?” He asks. Slowly, he turns his body so it is angled slightly away from her, one of his arms lifting and hooking around in the grass behind him. His whole body is twitching, begging him to run. There is something inherently wrong with her presence, but he reminds himself that it is Abigail, little Abigail who used to tell him stories and race him through the woods. Who whispered her secrets and opened herself up to his, never judged his fears, never called him silly or a liar. Only the second person in his life who accepted him completely, unconditionally. 

She doesn’t say anything else and he bites his lip, looks down the gap in the trees that he had walked in from, then to the right where they had approached from all those years ago. It’s so close to her house, closer that it was to the other House. He wonders if she used to come here before taking him, if she had discovered it or if one of her parents had brought her to it. He tries to imagine her walking out here alone while her parents were working, dipping her small feet in and then wading through, teaching herself to swim. She must have been so lonely. 

“The tree,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. 

Abigail isn’t looking at him anymore, but past his ear. He frowns and turns to look behind himself, finds nothing and turns back to find her vanished. For a while, he waits to see if she will come back. When she doesn’t, he stands with a sigh, holding as the water pours off of him in torrents, dripping back into the pond with a chorus of plips and plops.

##### Days 758-763

Back in rehab, they liked to press the importance of routine. Particularly during the height of his struggle, there had always been someone walking with him, talking about his schedule and how he would feel _so much better_ and _so in control_ if he stuck to it, even when he would rather curl up in his bunk and just never move again. He didn’t really think it worked, but maybe three was something to it. Hard to say what caused improvement, though maybe there is a file somewhere tracking his progress, explaining everything. 

Regardless, Luke takes up a routine. He rises when the sun breaks through the window and goes to sleep whenever he passes out. Luke doesn’t really get hungry, but he makes sure to eat once a day, around noon. 

He walks to the pond and waits for Abigail, and she never fails to appear. They sit together and he reads books aloud, dipping his toes into the water. She swims and tells him stories from her head and he stares at the water until she is gone, vanished like a sinking stone. Then he returns to the house, eats lunch and then maybe goes to town if he’s feeling restless, paces around inside the house, cleans and walks and listens to the sounds, to the rise and fall of the structure. 

He tries to visit town, to get away from the house and the trees, nervously rubbing his chest. The pain doesn’t return, and he walks the streets, ducks into stores and tries to integrate himself into the town, to pretend that this is a home.

But he doesn’t try to leave again, and he finds himself almost desiring the comfort of his walls, of his kitchen and the noises. His little lamp and bed. The girl in the window, the things in the corners, peeking around doorways and laughing as he walks past, palm over his own eyes.

##### Day 764

Luke dresses warmly and sits in the yard, facing the broken path. It is long and narrow, trees reaching in to snag and grab. He sets his legs straight out ahead of him and watches the path, sitting still on the ground, a dark blanket over the grass. In the Spring, he will start with lilies, because Nell loved them, loved that they were called lilies, a word that flipped on her tongue, loved that they were pale and open out and seem to nearly drape. Like an old timey woman swooning. Delicate swooning flowers. They always made her smile. He still remembers how she smiled, how he never learned to. Smiling when they were the burdens of the family, more so him than her. 

Lilies all through the garden. And then, of course, roses. Rose bushes, thick and tall with thorns all about. Careful work. A whole process, lining them up and making them live. Forcing something to survive where it might not want to. Roses for his mother, bright and red on either side of the front door. 

Lilies in the garden, roses in the front. A garden no one can find, hidden in the forest, blooming behind trees and so near, so close to, just a quick walk away from—

He doesn’t know how to tend a garden, doesn’t really know if the environment is right for flowers or if they would be a waste. Surely the soil would allow flowers. He’s seen wild flowers in the area. There’s no good reason for the flowers not to grow other than the fact that Luke doesn’t really know what to do with a garden, other than plant seeds and give them water. Maybe talk to them. 

Maybe, maybe. He could call someone and ask, but he doesn’t know if any of his siblings know about gardening. Shirley, probably. Of any of them, it would be Shirley. She used to follow their mom around the greenhouse, he thinks. There’s the vaguest memory of a tall, hot greenhouse, his mother with a broad smile, Shirley caring for the plants, following her mother’s instructions to the letter and helping produce great heaves of green and bright colors. He thinks that memory is too big to be made up. He wouldn’t make that up, surely. 

He could call Shirley and ask for tips and she would ask why and he would have to say he was starting up a garden. She would be pleased, probably. Pleased that he hadn’t run away to sulk in bed all day until he rots into the bed, a heavy black mass that sinks deeper into the mattress until it is just a dark stain. No, Shirley. I’m gardening. And she would tell him everything, maybe too much, and he would write it all down and actually follow her directions because he wants the flowers to do well, really, he does. 

And having something to do would be nice. A distraction. The books don’t always work, and it would be good to get on his feet again and to have something nice to see outside. 

Luke takes a deep breath in and releases it in a loud puff before rising to his feet, joints stiff and crackling. He raises his arms and stretches, groaning. With one final look down the path, Luke turns to the Dudley house and goes in, refocusing on dinner.

##### Day 766

He wakes in the trees. There is mud splattered all the way to his calves, dark and smeared over and under his feet, between his toes. It is misting outside, leaving a careful wet sheen over the world and making his grey pajama shirt slightly darker. He looks around him at the forest, chest tightening at the sensation of being lost. Luke glances behind himself and shivers. 

He’d hoped that this new habit wouldn’t follow him to the woods, but his bad luck has apparently survived the journey. 

And then, with a shock that ticks a path all the way up from the base of his spike to his ears, Luke realizes where he is. Just a little further west and he will stumble back out of the trees and into what had once been his front lawn. Hill House. 

He has only seen the tree line from this angle once before, as a little boy lost and following the beam of flashlights, his father, brother and sister calling for him. 

For a moment he is very still, holding his breath and staring straight ahead at what he knows is the old trail between their old home and the Dudley’s cabin. Tempting. His heart thuds. He wants, he wants to go Home. He can almost feel its warmth, its arms wrapping him in a hug. Maybe he never felt as good as he did there, maybe that’s the only place he has ever known any peace. 

No. With a hiss, Luke brings his hands up and thumps the heels of his hands against his own temples, crying out in frustration. Biting his tongue until he tastes copper, he takes a step back, then another, until he is stumbling backwards up the path. He stumbles on a wayward stone and has to catch himself on a tree. He flips around and runs the rest of the way, leaping over the steps and through the open front door. Slamming the door behind him with a cry, shrill and wild like a chased animal, Luke slides to the floor.

##### Day 770

It is easy to clear the garden. There is nothing salvageable, so he takes a hoe from the shed and hacks away until the dirt is loose and pulls up weeds with gloved hands, tossing them out to the tree line. A buildup of what looks almost like yellow wire or savannah grass and dirt clumps forms at the perimeter of his yard, but he isn’t concerned about its appearance. Eventually, he has a large square of dark soil. Someone could walk up and track his path across, noting by his shoeprints where he spent most of his effort, if he crouched or stood. 

He reaches his hands to the sky, making his back crack satisfactorily, and then swings them back down with a groan. 

Not bothering to change from his dirty clothes, Luke pulls himself into the truck and travels up to town, finding the hardware store. It is small and painted a flat gray, family-owned apparently since the seventies and not looking to change. There is a spinner of seeds in the back, and Luke picks around vegetables and fruit until he finds what he is looking for. Oleanders, lily bulbs, and half dead rose bushes from the front of the store. He brings his findings to the counters, smiles and nods while the bushy-bearded man arcs a brow and warns him that this isn’t the right season. 

Luke doesn’t tell him that this is the only season, thinking that might be a little too ominous for an old town that doesn’t necessarily like new faces. 

He also doesn’t say that there is a girl in the trees who makes the flowers grow, if only briefly, and he is curious to see if the flowers of his choice will rise at all.

##### Day 772

Shirley calls and Luke tells her about the garden. She, too, is doubtful but he says that it’s alright if nothing grows, that he just wants to work outside, to use his hands. That seems to make more sense to her and she stops chiding. He asks her about flowers, how to nurse them, even though he has a book on it open on the kitchen table. It’s good to hear another person talk. Good to hear Shirley. 

A black shadow crosses over the window, hovering for a moment before sliding away. Luke watches idly, listens to Shirley talk about some sort of wire. It is something else. Something unfamiliar. He hears its curious fingers tap, tap, tap along the outside of the house as it pushes along. 

Luke’s nails slide against the table. A mimicry of the creature’s searching hands, a dry slide over and over. 

His ears start to ring, like a perpetual amber alert at the center of his skull, pushing outward. _That’s its voice_ , he thinks. Just out of his realm of understanding. A voice so old and worn it is little more than a wail, unable to enunciate. A broken tongue. 

It wants in, of course. Luke opens his mouth to call for it. 

“Luke?” 

He blinks. “Sorry, what?” His heart has started off at a rabbit’s pace and he focuses on it, pulling his eyes down to the table. He’s alone.

##### Day 775

Luke makes tea and watches the clock and opens his locket and waits for the door.

 _Come out, come out, come out._

He stands, crosses the room and slowly pulls the door open. 

“Come in,” he whispers. 

Neither of them makes a move.

##### 2001

She sits on the end of his bed, flashing a small smile and then redirecting her gaze to the floor. Her hands are balled around a Kleenex in her lap and she works slowly at it, tearing away the edges and curling it until it is twisted and broken, all while they sit in silence. 

“C’mon,” he says, stopping her hands with his own, “don’t be scared Nellie, it’s gonna be alright. Look at me.” He tugs her until she is facing him, legs crossed under her on the bed, both of his hands gripping hers. He tries to mimic the smile she always gives him when he is anxious: dazzling and warm, encouraging. She takes a deep breath and nods. 

“I just… I was thinking. Well, I had a bad dream,” she starts, eyes locked on his, as if she is waiting for him to flinch. He is carefully still, doing his best to be steady for her, to allow her whatever she needs. His full attention, all of his heart. This time, he thinks, I’m going to be your anchor. 

“Like one of Shirley’s dreams?” He asks when she is silent for too long. Sometimes Shirley has waking nightmares, sitting up and screaming until Aunt Janet wraps her up in her arms and rocks her, shushing the screams right out of her mouth and sits with her until her eyes fall back shut and she returns to sleep, otherwise walking her to the kitchen and brewing tea. 

Nell considers, shakes her head, “I don’t think so. It wasn’t scary, really. It was…” she lets a frustrated sigh slip through her teeth and tugs his hands hard, once, “what do you remember from that night?” Her voice has risen, jolting from uncertain to agitated. Luke licks his lips, chest starting to ache. 

“I don’t know. Abigail,” he shrugs. Abigail, spending the night, smiling when he offered up his own bed, finally meeting Nell and all three of them laughing while they worked together to build a makeshift bed for him on the floor. Tea party with real tea, One, two, three kids around a table, eager to partake. Nell more excited than either he or Abigail, and tea party with—

“Uh,” he says, opening his mouth and then closing it, shaking his head, “just tell me, Nell. What’re you thinking?” But he doesn’t think he really wants her to say, isn’t sure that he wants to have to dig up old shit only to dig a new hole later, doesn’t want to overturn the dead. Not tonight, not after all this time. 

But he’ll do anything for Nell. Even if he can feel the skin of it edging up, burning and prickling its way over him like the precursor of panic, of days in bed and hot sick in his throat. 

“Luke,” she says, trembling, “Luke, can you remember what mom did?” 

When he thinks about that night, his body is taken by careful waves. It is the only think that doesn’t scare him. He catches his breath and leans closer to her, squeezing her shaking hands to remind her that he is with her, he can hold her. 

“I do,” he says firmly. “I think we’re the only ones who really know. I don’t think dad knows that we do.” 

She lets out her breath, eyes shutting. He waits patiently for her to collect herself, soothes his thumb over her knuckles while she collects herself. 

“Are you mad at her?” she sobs, body racketing with the effort of speaking silently while she is so rattled. He thinks about her question for so long that Nell opens her eyes, watching him with wide-eyed concern, waiting as if his next words will actually mean something, though he isn’t convinced that anything he has to say should actually carry any weight. But Nell is the only one who listens, so maybe to her he’s enough. 

“No,” he says, “I’m mad at The House. For doing that to her.” He juts his jaw and swallows back the emotion rising in his throat, making his words thick. Nell hiccups, nodding adamantly. 

“Me too,” she sobs, “me too!” 

His lip wobbles and he yank her in closer, wraps his arms around her tiny frame and holds her while she quivers, rocks them both side to side and whispers nonsense in her ear, lying and saying that everything will be okay, lying and saying that it’s alright.

##### Day 777

“Steve,” Luke says, scratching his chin and watching the wall, trying to still himself and hold his voice clear, show no discomfort, “can I ask a serious question? Something I’ve been, uh, struggling with for a while.” 

There is a prolonged silence over the line and Luke has to swallow back his inkling to pull back, to take his question off the table and go back to talking about little El, about pastel green and stuffed rabbits, about new and old lullabies and Steve, carefully repainting an old bookshelf, slowly layering it a soft blue and thinking about crawling vines and blooming roses up the sides. That’s a better topic, new life and the start of a beautiful child over the old rot of their own youths. 

Then, while Luke struggles with his own doubt, Steve clears his throat and says, “Of course, Luke. What’s up?” 

Their family died by their secrets, held them so close to the chest as their minds slowly decayed and they disappeared with hardly a squeak. Luke has been following that yarn, tracing the thread with trembling fingers and letting it guide him through the dark all this time. The practice has not served him, did not serve his parents or his twin. If he wants to make it, he needs to stop. Needs to retrace his steps back to the beginning, start anew. He opens his mouth. 

“Do you know what happened that night? I mean, you know about… do you know about what mom did?” He shakes, as if his mother’s actions are his own shame, as if he had some sort of control that summer, a six-year-old boy sitting at a table in the red room with people he loved. 

“I know about… Abby. What she did to Abby.” His voice is hesitant, testing the waters, making sure he isn’t leading Luke too deep. Luke closes his eyes, remembers that long, rectangular table, the way the girl had heaved and squirmed as she burst from the inside. Like an overdose, like the death he’s been chasing, been running from. Playing games with a fate he’s so close to. 

“Yeah, yeah. And what she was trying to do?” Luke pushes. There’s that sound, that stream, that quick, pulling wire. It’s just behind his ear and he tries to focus on his brother, to imagine him sitting at his desk in LA, his little daughter in the next room, Leigh trying to steal a nap or catching up on reading. He tries to pull himself back, desperate to know but stay in the present. 

“Luke,” Steve says, pleading almost, “I don’t want to, I shouldn’t—” 

“Because I know. I remember. I have to know if you know,” He begs, slouching forward, gathering himself around the phone, hanging on the words and hungry for the answer. 

“You do?” Steve sounds hurt; his pain not personal but sympathetic, like witnessing your child’s first heartbreak. “All of it?” 

“She woke us up. All three of us. Got us out of our beds when it was still dark,” he whispers, trying to speak slowly, to not stumble. Look, he thinks, I can handle it. 

“Luke,” Steve says, chilled, “Luke, you don’t need to tell me.”

“I want to know what happened after.” Luke says. Outside, a leaf falls from the tree, sharp and yellow, plummeting straight down, windless. 

“No.” Simple denial. Steve sighs, and Luke can imagine the expression on his face: pinched, headache building, heart squeezing uncomfortably. He’s seen his brother like that so many times, usually when he reappears after a rehab break and needs money, or in the earlier days, high off his mind and desperate to get off the streets just for one night, _please Steve, please I can’t I can’t I can’t_. Seams slowly popping, his older brother unable to meet his eyes, shamed and resentful, loving but dismissing. A new wall. 

“Steve,” he says, “I know the worst of it. Don’t you understand? What Nell and I… what we saw. What we… what we… loving mom and having her do that, and loving her still. All these years, I need to know what happened after.” He begs, tangling his fingers in his own hair, tugging at the roots. His nails bite into his left knee and he breathes so slowly, so slowly. 

“How… Jesus, what makes you think I know. Isn’t that the point? I didn’t see anything that night. Dad took me out and I—” He cuts himself off with a pained groan, angry now. Frustrated with Luke for dredging this up, at himself for his own block, his inability to help. But he can. He’s the only one who can. 

“You were the last one with Dad.” Luke hisses, then bites his tongue. Quiet, he thinks, calm. Don’t be so hyper and desperate, don’t remind him what you are. People like you get cut off, removed, tossed away with the filth. Don’t remind him what you are. 

“Yeah,” Steve huffs, tone thick with secrets. “I was. He… listen, Luke. I don’t wanna tell you because I don’t wanna talk about it. You saw the worst she did but then… it’s what Dad did. And the Dudleys. How it all ended. It’s…” 

“Just tell me. I’ll never bring it up again. I won’t tell anyone,” He doesn’t know if Shirley and Theo would even want him to tell, or if they, like Steve, are ready to put that summer behind them. But Luke can’t, not when—

“Okay,” Steve finally relents, his voice rough and solemn. A shiver runs up Luke’s spine and he nods, sits very still as if he could spook Steve from all these miles away. 

And Steve takes a deep breath and starts.

##### Day 778

The end comes too soon. 

Luke walks down the path with bare feet and a book under his arm, a packet of seeds in his pocket. He wants to show her what he’s been working on, to tell her that he missed her for the last few days, the last few years. Ask her about the thing that circles his house, that has been whispering into the crack in the door, the windows. 

The walk is short and familiar by now, and he looks around the pond and the border of trees to find her absent. He waits, scanning and rescanning, and then gets closer to the water. It’s cold on his toes. Soon he won’t be able to join Abigail in the water at all. He’ll have to wear sweaters and then a coat and boots. Maybe the surface will freeze over and he can step out onto it, slide around in a poor man’s version of skating. 

More time passes and he remains alone. He opens the book on his lap and reads to himself, ignoring the slight tremble in his hands and the dread building in his gut. Still, she doesn’t come. The line fades from bright to a dull orange that dapples the grass, and Luke sets his book aside and calls out for her. Once, twice. Nothing comes back to him. He wraps his arms around his knees and pulls them in closer, eyes intent on the tree line. 

He spends the whole day there, and Abigail never comes. 

When he realizes it, hot tears slide down his cheek and he sobs into his pantlegs. The denim turns a dark blue, a strange blotch on each knee. Slowly, he rises to his feet and strips down. His clothes fall into a pile that he steps out of. He gets in the water. It is cold, and he twines his arms over his bare chest and slides deeper in, holding in a shiver. He lays down. 

Sinking to the bottom, Luke digs his nails into the mud and holds himself there. His body bobs upward, the tips of his toes breeching the surface, but the water envelopes his face and shoulders. He listens to the muted sounds of nature, the steady drum of his pulse. Hot tears crack the cool water. 

When he rises up, sucking in air like a hungry fish, the sun is gone. There is no movement in the trees, no sound. The woods seem void of life. He pulls himself out of the water and gathers his discarded clothes up in his arms, drying one hand to carry his book. The seeds are still in his jeans pocket. 

Soaking wet, Luke returns to the Dudley House. He drops his clothes at the front door and pads to the bathroom. He leans on the sink while the shower water heats up, waiting until it starts to steam, and then throws his cold body in. Water hits like little needles and he holds himself still under the assault.

##### Day 780

Luke hasn’t gotten out of bed yet when he hears a car pull into his driveway. He sits up slowly, remaining perfectly still and listening hard while the motor switches off, the door swings open. Two feet drop onto the ground and then pause for a while, probably taking in the house, the little green truck parked off to the side, before slowly approaching. Luke counts the steps (one, two, three, four, five, six) and closes his eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting until whoever it is knocks quickly, impatiently, three times. 

Still, Luke doesn’t get up. He breathes as quietly as he can, eyes locked on the window, as if his visitor will be able to hear where he is, will walk around the house and look in at him, sitting in bed, heart shivering in his chest. The visitor is also quiet, and then he knocks again, louder this time. One, two, three. 

Luke clenches his jaw, rises. He shuffles to the chair shoved in the corner and yanks on a dark sweater that hasn’t been washed yet, wraps his arms around himself and goes to the edge of his bedroom, staring down the hall and into the kitchen. The kitchen seems too still for this invasion. It should be rattling, pots and pans smacking and silverware clattering in drawers, doors opening and slamming back shut. He half expects the entire house to protest, to demand his isolation.  
Instead, it stands peaceful as it always does, carefully unimposing, a polite house, the politest house he’s ever stood in. 

The visitor doesn’t knock again, but doesn’t move from the door. Maybe he knows, Luke thinks, that I’m getting closer. Maybe he can hear me, same as I hear him. The floorboards don’t creak, but who knows, who knows what’s happening on the other side of the door, who’s waiting. 

I’m being paranoid, he thinks, I’m being a coward. 

It is almost a relief when the visitor knocks again, this time thumping on the door over and over, nine times in quick succession, before abruptly going silent. Luke breathes out. Steps through the kitchen and can see the front door. He stands at an angle so he is hidden in the doorframe, so if the visitor looks through the window, they won’t see him looking back, won’t know where he stands, or if he is even home, no signs of life outside the truck. 

“Luke,” comes a voice through the door, the voice of his brother, sharp with fear. Luke swallows, conflicting relief and dismay converging in his chest. He stands still for a moment longer, and then pads across the living room and unlocks the door before slowly pulling it open, facing his admonishment. 

“Hi,” Luke says simply, leaning against the doorframe and taking in the sight of his brother. Steve is wearing an oatmeal sweater and jeans, which strikes Luke as funny but he doesn’t laugh. Just stares at him and waits, waits for his exasperated and unhappy face to convert into words, for those tense hands, one still fisted from hitting the door, to grab him, wrestle him into the car and take off to wherever Steve decided home was. No one really got it, no one really understood except—

“What the fuck,” Steve says, trying to see past Luke into the house, nostrils flaring. Luke scratches his elbow and looks at the car Steve has probably rented. Luke doesn’t know much about cars, but it is small and round and a mucky shade of green, like swamp water. 

Luke shakes his head, doesn’t really know what to say, so just tries, “What?” Steve’s eyes snap shut and he slowly inhales, lifts a hand, then drops it. Opens his mouth, shuts it. Reopens his eyes. Luke meets them, but quickly looks away, over Steve’s shoulder and to his own truck, sitting quietly, the sandbag for the flooding basement in the bed, waiting to fulfill its purpose. He sighs. “Yeah, sorry. I know this seems messed up. Or something.” 

In response to this, Steve jolts, shakes his head and presses his knuckles into his temples. 

“What the fuck,” he says again, more earnest this time, eyes shiny and focused on Luke, searching him for signs of injuries or, more likely, of drug use. Luke sniffs and steps to the side, leaving an opening for Steve if he decides to enter. Steve steps to the side, peers in and takes in the living room, what he can make out of the kitchen. He does not step over the threshold. “I don’t understand,” he says, softer, as if this show of trust has soothed him somehow. Maybe he sees it is clean, sees that Luke is clear eyed and nervous but not twitchy. They’re both nervous. 

“Right. I got this house when the Dudleys died.” Luke explains, scratching his ear. “They left it to me. I don’t know why.” Steve is still staring, but this new information makes his face pinch, and Luke can only shrug, say, “Maybe because of Abigail.” 

“Or because they hated our family,” Steve grumbles, purses his lips and turns his head to see if he can get a better angle of the living room, maybe see through into the hallway. Luke takes a deep breath and swipes his hand out to the side, indicating the interior of the house. 

“You wanna come in?” He asks, and Steve flickers his eyes back to Luke, face settled into a deep scowl. He’s afraid of the house. That’s clear enough to see. Luke considers letting him stand outside, maybe walking out around the house and to the garden, then says, “Steve, it’s just me,” unsure if that was a comfort or mocking. He doesn’t imagine that he is capable of mocking someone with ghosts, though he has seen it enough to know how it is done. 

Steve clears his throat and then, finally, steps into the living room. Luke gives him a smile and then leads him to the kitchen, starts making coffee. 

“Why are you here?” Steve asks, and Luke doesn’t turn around to see which frown he is offering now, doesn’t need to. 

Luke sighs, “I just said,” which elicits a soft groan from Steve, as if Luke has just grabbed his stomach and gave it a hard squeeze. Luke fills two mugs, doesn’t have milk or sugar or creamer and passes it plain to his brother, who lets it warm his hands. 

“No,” Steve pushes, “tell me why you decided it was a good idea to live here.” 

Luke is almost comforted by the familiar tone. When he was young, it was the voice over the phone, asking him why, exactly, he had decided to get drunk and take their aunt’s car to a field to do doughnuts, and Luke calmly telling him that his question answered itself. 

And, of course, it isn’t a question he can answer. There was no reason, and he didn’t think it was a good idea. He just wanted to stop walking to Hutchinson’s in the middle of the night, didn’t want to scare anybody, wanted to stop being a burden on his loved ones. The truth wouldn’t work with Steve, it never had. Not since Luke was six years old. 

“Listen, Steve,” he says, leaning on the counter, suddenly exhausted, “I was being honest before, I wanted a house in the country and this was free. I’ve been here for a while. Nothing’s happened.” He puts his palms out, as if to show how clean they were. 

“Not yet,” Steve says gravely. His face is so solemn, so deeply scared that it makes Luke ache. When he was younger, part of him had hoped that one day Steve would have to experience the fear that Luke carried, would see something that bottomed out his entire world. It turns out, Luke doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want his brother to suffer, wishes for his willful ignorance to return. 

“You talk to me every week, Steve.” Luke reminds him, knowing that that probably isn’t the comfort he wants it to be. They both know that these hills, the other House, eat slowly and then all at once. That if they decided to take Luke, he will simply vanish. Gone with one long swallow. 

“I can’t stand to have you here,” Steve hisses, grabbing his brother’s wrist. His grip is firm, and Luke resists the urge to pull away, to dig his nails into his brother’s knuckles until his fingers splay and he can bolt. It’s not necessary, there’s no reason to panic, nothing to fight. 

Instead, Luke gently places his hand over Steve’s, holding it warmly, meeting his eyes and staying as steady as he can, focusing in on him. 

“I know. But I’m telling you it’s fine. You have to believe me, Steve. Trust that I would back out as soon as things started shaking up,” and he tries to project the image his brother needs; Luke, older and braver, aware of his own limits. He tries to hide the truth, the months and months and months of a ticking clock, time passing, the line reeling back, the tug in his chest. He does all he can to cover the time spent waiting patiently to be drawn back in, how every morning he turned, pulled like on half of a magnet back to these hills, how his body is now starting to release, to pump out tension and replace it with acceptance. 

Steve stares at him hard, eyes sinking in like teeth and digging for something Luke isn’t sure how to give. Then, grip on Luke now much gentler, eyes seeping warm tears and his voice cricked and raw with desperation, “Let’s go, Luke. Okay? Let’s just go.” 

Luke tilts his head and then puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder, carefully pulls him in closer until Steve’s face is turned into his neck, one hand gripping at his back while the other remains locked on Luke’s wrist, keeping both of their arms smashed between their chests so that Luke can feel Steve’s heart shivering against his wrist, closes his eyes and lets it thump, thump, thump. 

They stand there in the middle of the Dudleys’ kitchen, clutching each other, Luke humming out consolatory words into space and hoping that somehow his older brother will catch them, will understand them for what they are when Luke himself, so close now, isn’t quite sure himself. 

Gradually, the tears stop and they are just standing, Steve leaning heavily against Luke, who gladly supports him. Steve sighs and then pulls back far enough to look again into Luke’s eyes. And Luke, coming out of their embrace like some sort of fugue, doesn’t consider recovering his shield, doesn’t act quickly enough to hide. 

Steve’s face hunts and quickly finds its target, red eyes becoming hard and his grasp on Luke tightening, the only sign of what is about to happen. 

Strange, when Steve yanks hard, surprising Luke and throwing him off balance. Stranger still when he uses his brother’s disorientation to get behind him and start shoving, forcing him to the front door, one of Luke’s arms cranked uncomfortably behind his back, feet stumbling as if taking their first steps. 

Luke grunts, leans back hard against Steve, smacking his nose with his head. Steve hollers and jerks away, the shoving hand rising to his nose, the other remaining firm. Luke twists so his arm is before him, facing his brother with a shocked frown. 

“What the hell?” Luke bellows, trying to shake his brother off of him as Steve regrips. There is a dribble of blood beneath his nose, but Luke didn’t break it. His eyes are not frenzied, as Luke had half expected them to be, but almost sharp with a sense of purpose. “Stop,” He coughs, when Steve lurches forward, trapping Luke’s captive hand behind him once more and wrapping both of his arms around Luke like a hug. He forces his weight on Luke, taking him back a few steps. Luke gasps, already exhausted, and weakly punches his brother’s back with his free arm. 

They are in an odd position, Steve wrapped around and berating Luke, while Luke tries simply to free himself, to get some sort of purchase and not tumble into a heap on the ground. Steve is slightly hunched to get a tight hold, his ear is resting on Luke’s neck and his shoulder, oddly crooked, is just below his chin. 

Panting, neither prepared for a wrestling match, they lean heavily together. Luke has stopped punching, rests a tired hand to his brother’s back and just tries to breathe, wide eyes on the window before him, the line of trees. Steve managed to move them into the living room and they stand now close to the couch, maybe five feet from the front door. 

“This is really stupid,” Luke puffs, patting Steve’s back softly. Steve laughs weakly, nods. “And you’re really hurting my arm,” Luke adds, wriggling his fingers behind him. After a moment, Steve lets go, leaning back away from Luke and leaning forward to rest both hands on his knees, laughing at the floor. Luke groans, dropping onto the couch. Steve laughs for a little bit longer and then joins him. They sit together, quietly. Considering. 

“Sorry,” Steve says, looking straight ahead at the wall. Luke wishes he hadn’t asked him into the house, had brought him out back to the garden. But it’s fine now, quiet.

“That’s okay,” Luke huffs, resting back and closing his eyes. He shouldn’t be this tired. He should start eating more, start walking again. It hasn’t been that long, surely, since he came to the woods. 

“I shouldn’t have grabbed you,” and his voice is so regretful that Luke wants to weep for him, wants to tell him that it’s okay and that it’s not his job to rescue them, it was never on him to be anything more than a big brother. 

“I’m not mad,” Luke says honestly. 

“I don’t do that. Normally,” Steve goes on, and Luke finally rolls his head to meet his brother’s eyes, flashing a smile at Steve, who reciprocates. 

“Don’t worry about it. We’re alright.” He pats Steve’s arm and closes his eyes, taking in the silence of the little house and the warmth of his brother’s presence in the normally empty space. 

Sometime later, both of them recovered from the confrontation, Steve stands up and walks to the door, Luke slowly trailing behind. Steve hesitates at the threshold, one foot in the door, one outside. He half turns to frown at Luke. He is sad, Luke knows, as if they have both seen how it all turns out and can share this regretful look, this premature grief. 

“I’ll invite Shirley and Kevin over for dinners. Theo too,” Luke promises, the corner of his lip quirking up in a half grin. Steve nods, looks at the floor. Luke is worn, doesn’t know how to make Steve leave him to shower and curl back up in bed with a book, with the ceiling and the twisting turning thoughts. 

Steve bounces on his feet like he is going to break into a run. Instead of taking off, however, he turns back into the house and pulls Luke into a final hug, somehow folding Luke into a smaller shape and tucking him into his arms. 

“I love you,” Steve whispers at the wall, and Luke hums in response. A chord seems to pull in Luke’s stomach and he can’t speak. He grinds his teeth and just nods into his brother’s shoulder, patting him mindlessly on the back and trying not to croak or break apart. 

Steve releases the hug and leaves without another word, straight out to the car, only looking back when he is settled into the driver’s seat and turning the key. Luke watches him the whole time, keeping track of the car as it reverses onto the road up until it disappears behind the towering trees. 

 

~*~

 

Steve’s calls become more erratic; Luke’s phone rings two days after Steve heads back to California, and then four days after that, and then on and on and on without any pattern outside of what he assumes is random surges of brotherly panic. Unfortunately, it isn’t entirely unjustified.

##### Day 783

Shirley will not enter the house. The day after he calls her, her dark car rolls into the driveway and she stomps up, rapping her fist violently on the door, making the whole wall rattle as he stumbles down the hall and yanks the door open. Her face is sharp, eyes dead on him and jaw set. She is so small but he has no doubt that she would fare better in a fight against him than Steve had. 

“Hey, Shirl,” he rasps, clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you this fast so I’m not really prepared to host.” He tries for humor but it falls from his mouth, slapping dulling into the entryway and splattering on both of their shoes. Pathetic, a silly little boy trying to explain the broken glassware to his mother. Shirley, after all these years, still somehow scarier than Theo could ever hope to be. 

“I’m not going to forgive you,” she says, flatly. He blinks and she does too. Then she shoves her hands in her pockets and takes a step backwards, making room for him to step out. “You said there’s a garden?” 

He yanks on his shoes, leaving the door open and tying them while she idles in the front yard, looks out into the trees on the opposite side of the path, avoiding the path. He hops out and walks her to the backyard. She circles the garden and then smiles knowingly at him, leaning forward and placing one palm over the dirt, looking for the life of him like Theo trying to get a sense of something. 

“I’ve been following your instructions,” he says, keeping a few feet back from her, allowing her time and space. She nods, gets back on her feet. 

“Is that crappy diner still in town? The one with the pink bunny?” she asks, walking back around to the front yard. He follows dutifully, trying to remember if he had seen in his last time leaving the house. 

He hesitates, says, “Yeah, I think so.” 

“Great. Go put on real pants and let’s go,” She leans on the side of her car, folding her arms and looking back at him expectantly. He isn’t sure what to do, as if his brain hit a wall and can’t quite compute what she is saying to him, can’t translate her demands. “Luke, I’m here for dinner,” she says, softly this time. He takes a deep breath, nods and then rushes into the house. 

He pulls on some clothes and hunts down his wallet where it is tucked into his sock drawer. He doesn’t lock the front door behind him, trusting the house to manage itself, somehow, and pulls himself into the small car. 

The car ride is mostly silent, Shirley taking in the small town she hasn’t seen since that one summer, her face slightly upturned as she reflects on some childhood memories, finding some sort of happiness in whatever she remembers. She laughs when she sees the sign outside the diner. Big, shaped like a pink bunny with Mini Lop Susan’s stretching across in electric blue. They had been here only a few times, all seven of them piling into a booth and ordering burgers. Just a simple family enjoying their summer, splurging every few weeks. 

“I’m getting a shake,” Shirley proclaims, hopping out of the car, purse hooked over her arm. He watches her straighten her shirt and walk around the car, go up to the door and turn, waiting for him. With a quick sigh, he joins her. 

The diner smells like grilled meat and grease, and all the lights are either fluorescent yellow or neon pink. The owners are by no means unclear about their motif, decorating the counter with porcelain, stuffed, and ceramic bunnies of all different colors, pictures of bunnies printed onto the menus and the pancakes cut to have long ears. For a moment, the smells and color of the room are overwhelming. Then, gingerly, Shirley looks her arm through his and leads him to a booth in the back, slightly away from the other patrons, and pushes him into a seat. She slides in opposite him and picks up her menu, though he suspects she already knows exactly what she is getting. 

“I forgot about this place,” he says to his menu, and she chuckles across from him. He finds what he wants after less than a minute of searching and puts his menu down on the table, knotting his hands together and looking out the window, watching pedestrians walk by, running errands or trying to get home. 

“God, I used to love it here,” she chuckles, placing her menu on top of his and relaxing into her seat. “It’s just so silly. And it knows it’s silly, which makes it that much better.” 

The word silly doesn’t really coincide with Shirley, and they clash in his brain. He can’t force them together. 

The waitress returns and they order their food. They talk like old friends reunited after years of separation. Things he might have said as a healthy man. If he had done better. Reminiscing about their childhoods, skimming over the less happy parts, the parts that separated them, and focusing instead on the joys. Stupid games, weird traditions. The things that happen in a house full of children who will do anything to keep from getting bored. The food arrives and they eat in silence. 

Shirley orders dessert for both of them, and Luke accepts without complaint, even though he feels like bursting. This is the most he’s eaten in months. He is grateful that his sister doesn’t comment on how skinny he’s gotten, how pale. How his hands won’t stop shaking, even when he smiles. 

He waits for the conversation to start. For Shirley to pull on her Stern Mom Face and to tell him that it’s time to come home, that he needs to change. To fix himself again. Luke eats his ice cream and tries to formulate an answer better than _the pieces just don’t fit, like I was never whole at all_. Because that’s a little melodramatic, even for him. 

But it never happens. Shirley drinks her shake, sticking her thumb to the roof of her mouth and groaning about brain freeze, and never says a thing about how Luke is killing himself. 

Eventually, she pays the bill and they return to the car. She drives around, staring out at the little businesses, asking where he has been and if the people are nice. He answers truthfully and earns a laugh. It’s not often he gets his sister unconcerned. She’s like a different person and he feels drawn towards her, not as a maternal being but as a friend, someone he forgot to miss. Someone he isn’t sure he ever knew. 

They dawdle, and it is dark out before Shirley pulls into his driveway. Twin headlights beam at the front of the house and they both stare. Luke worries that they’ll see something, or, worse, that he will see something that she doesn’t. But for now, it’s just a house, and they sit and silently wait for it to open its mouth, to breathe fire, and it doesn’t. Shirley sighs. 

“Damn,” she says, then smiles at him. “Can’t I get you to come back with me?” 

Luke returns her smile and wishes he could say yes, to go back to the guesthouse and stay there, to find a real apartment and maybe restart. A life. Instead, he shakes his head. Shirley clenches her jaw and glares at the house, opens her mouth then grinds it shut again. 

He finds that he can’t reassure her, can’t make himself lie. He says, “I liked spending time with you,” meaning today, meaning the last few years and their childhoods. Shirley shoots him a glare. 

“Don’t say it like that. I’ll see you soon.” And he is surprised that she believes it. Her tone is so certain, her eyes dry. Luke nods, squeezes her hand and dips out of the car. She doesn’t pull out until he is in the house with the door shut behind him, and he watches through the window as she backs up and swings back onto the road, driving away slowly. Two beams arcing through the trees, then gone.

##### Day 786

There’s a tavern in town where all the local retirees go to have their morning coffee and shoot the shit. Luke wanders in for no good reason and finds a seat. He angles himself so he can see them, but opens a book and drinks, pretending to read but really eavesdropping. They all know each other, and Luke wonders how there are any new stories left between them. They spend each morning together, have met each other’s spouses and children, and heard about and seen pictures of their grandchildren. But still, they talk about _back when I was still working at so-and-so and I swear, I swear it really happened!_ If it was Luke at that table, he wouldn’t have much to say. He supposes that’s just about what kind of life you live. 

In another life, Luke might have enjoyed this. Might have chosen this, slipped it into his routine. Maybe he wouldn’t even have needed a routine. 

He would slide into a seat at the table as these old men, maybe later in the day after work. They would all know his name and pat his tired shoulders, make bad jokes about whatever and make him buy their drinks. He could listen to their stories and maybe share his own. He’d play cards join their gambling, scratch off some lotto cards. 

Still, even now he likes to listen to them talk like old men, talk like family. Like each of their lives is so connected that the seams are smooth, worn down with familiarity and love. 

Luke orders a second coffee and pretends to be part of the world, pretends to be a human. To have a place at the table.

##### Day 794

It’s cold enough now that his bony feet feel like bruises with each step and that his fingers are blush pink. He’d stopped sleeping with shoes on. The dirt path is easier on his feet that asphalt, and the bottoms are calloused over and scarred enough that he comes out of his sleep generally unharmed, if a bit disoriented. 

When his wits return to him, Luke jolts to a stop and looks around him. Not far off, he can see a thin trail of smoke rising in the air. Chimney. The House will be warm, then. If he keeps going forward, he can lay in front of the fireplace and close his eyes, get the best sleep he’s had in a while, warm his bones. He brings his hands up to rub at his face with a groan that becomes a scream. 

He wrenches his hands to his sides in fists, holding his body so tense that his muscles ache. The scream tears out of his throat and shoots across the woods, echoing out and back. He is the only live thing out here, or the only one that dares reveal itself so plainly. The scream is a long pull that shudders out and then is gone. He pants, stares at the smoke and waits for an answer. Silence. 

“Fuck you!” He yells, his voice little more than a croak. Then he turns on his heel and goes back to the Dudley House, the distant smoke continuing to rise in his mind, like a clock ticking.

##### Day 800

Just before the final few days, Luke knows. He wakes in the middle of the night, feeling the slow exhale of the Dudley house, and his chest surges with an abrupt certainty. Suspicion bleeds out, gathering at his spin and then leaking, pooling into his sheets before completely disappearing, abandoning him and being replaced by knowledge. 

And the truth is, he has felt this collecting for over a year, and there was never really a choice. Of course, he shouldered much of the blame. He could have told someone, or ran in the opposite direction, separated himself from the whole thing, leaving the state, the country, and let his chest split open with each mile. Maybe he would he soaring down an empty country road, the radio of his truck ebbing in and out, and then his heart would thump, one, two more times before collapsing inward. He would hold the wheel steady, a gesture of acknowledgment, a sign that he knew the whole damn time, and then just die. 

As far as he is concerned, this is the best way to lose. His family will understand in their own way what happened to him; drawn to The House, or missing his twin, or simply miserable in the way he always had been. Anyhow, it’ll make more sense than him simply crashing his car after what might, to an outsider, look like a heart attack or stroke or aneurism. 

And, honestly, these are all just theories. That’s another part that Luke must take on. He believes that if he left, the pain in his chest would expand and, eventually, erupt. But there is no evidence that his theory is true, and there is only one way to test it, which he doesn’t know is worth it. 

Ultimately, Nell is pulling him back home. This painful chord, the tugging in his chest, is their link. He’s sure of it. She died and left him here alone, a singular being in a way he was never meant to be, wholly individual. And his soul couldn’t take it any better than his mind, and it was reaching back across the miles for her.

##### Day 804

It’s too cold to swim, but Luke makes his way down to the pond anyway. He follows the familiar path, looking around at the red and gold leaves lining the way until he finds it, pale and quiet under the autumn chill. After the few more steps he is at the edge of it and settles down into the prickly grass, the points of his shoes just at the beginning of the water and threatening to dip in. 

They should have picnicked here, all those years ago. Mom, Dad, and five little children, rushing around and making a mess of things. A perfect little family, one last moment before everything went to hell. Luke can imagine it. Mom would lay down a blanket while Dad held the basket and looked at her like the only light in the world. Steve would help divvy out the food while Shirley kicked off her shoes and let her toes dip into the water. Theo would already have a book cracked open, hat dropping a shadow over her face, hiding a smile. And Nelly, he’s sure, would be picking flowers, gathering all the colors in her hands and passing them around, setting them in her family’s hair and dancing like there would never be another cloud in the sky. 

He doesn’t understand why they hadn’t done that. He can’t remember. Somehow, he is locked away in a house that, after all this time, barely belongs to him. 

Luke isn’t surprised when Abigail doesn’t come. She’s waiting for him, now. His turn to take the first step. It’s sad that no one will visit the pond anymore, that it will sit lonely. He wishes that he had brought someone here to show that it exists so that maybe they would come back and make sure it’s taken care of, or that it sees some use. He doesn’t like the idea of the pond being abandoned, or of the Dudley House sitting empty with his truck unlocked out front. 

The trees whisper around him, shifting around in the wind and Luke rises to his feet and returns down the path.

##### Day 810

Luke writes letters to his loved ones and tucks them away in his artbook, folding them into careful squares. He isn’t sad, just full of love and so warm, so warm because he is finally going home.

##### Day 818

Steve’s last call comes in on Saturday at 6 PM, their usual appointment. Luke lies in bed, watches the screen flash and lets it ring out. The picture of his brother blinks away. It is replaced by the Missed Call banner, and then the screen goes dark. He can see his face reflected back at him and he closes his eyes against it. His stomach is pooled with dread he doesn’t fully understand, but the second time the phone lights up Luke pushes the nausea down and answers. 

“Hey, sorry. I was just about to call you back. Was in the garden.” He says easily, rolling to his back. The truth is that he hasn’t gotten out of bed yet and doesn’t plan on it. Just one day, he just needs one day to lie here, completely empty. To wallow in total stillness, in complete silence. 

He can hear Steve sigh, try to cover it up by clearing his throat. Luke feels bad. He hadn’t meant to scare Steve, especially now, but sometimes he behaves selfishly. That’s just the way it is. 

“That’s fine. What were you doing in the garden?” Steve asks. He tries to sound calm, even keeled, but his voice is still a little high, like he doesn’t have quite enough air to support speaking. 

Luke stares up at the ceiling and tells somewhat honest lies. He tells Steve about weeding, about how the plants are wilting and curling inward, crashing into their stems and breaking, dry and brown, back to the soil. He goes to the garden and takes inventory, gently prods the dying flowers and wonders how long until they just fully collapse and disappear, are reabsorbed somehow. Steve listens, hums along. 

“Leigh has a little herb garden. It doesn’t really die, though, because it’s in the house.” Steve says, and Luke imagines what an herb garden looks like. He imagines a witch’s cottage, a cauldron hooked up above a fire, shelves draped with odd vials and long drawn leaves, thirsty roots reaching down. More likely, a long, shallow box with rows of pots that have tiny leafed plants that offer up smelly rosemary and the like. 

They talk for a long time, and Luke hangs on every word, closing his eyes and drifting on the lilt of his brother’s voice. Luxuriating in it.

##### Day 821

Luke wakes up with the sun and a sense of finality. One last morning. He is okay.

He makes himself tea and drags a chair out to the garden, sips at the hot drink with his boots in the dirt, eyes scanning over flowers that never really had a chance to grow. It’s sad, but he imagines what could have been, enjoys looking over the dirt that he cleared and the little tags he stuck before each row. It was a nice job, something he wouldn’t mind doing again. Maybe in another life, this is what he does. Minds fields, arms marked with dirt and sun, his boots worn from use and blisters in the web between his thumb and forefinger. 

The temperature has dropped in the last few weeks and it is cold. The trees are turning colors and the grass is dull. Everywhere he steps crunches underfoot. It had been a long summer, too long. The kind that stretches over an entire life, it seems, and settles under the skin. Luke’s body doesn’t remember how to be cold, and he takes the last sip of tea and returns to the house. 

He leaves the mug in the sink and shuffles down the hall to the bathroom. He doesn’t bother training his gaze, knows that he won’t see anything today. That nothing is going to bother him. 

His clothes are quickly discarded into a pile on the floor and Luke cranks the water to a steaming heat and steps under the spray. He stays there a long time. Until his skin is blush pink and his stomach is turning over. He slowly turns the water cool, then icy cold and holds still until the shock of it hurts and he snaps it off completely. 

He steps out and dries himself off, then walks with the towel around his waist to the bedroom. He doesn’t get dressed right away. Instead, he lies on his bed and shivers, his body trying to decide if it is too hot or cold and struggling to regulate itself. He stares up at the ceiling and feels his heart clatter in a mess before eventually easing out. 

Once he gets dressed, Luke goes to his truck and drives to town. He takes his time, going the speed limit and enjoying the calm fields and tiny houses that he passes. The town is quiet as usual, and Luke pulls into a parking lot and abandons the truck to walk. He doesn’t walk with any destination in mind, but winds up in the local bookstore anyway. 

There’s no point buying himself anything, but he thinks of Nicolette, and picks up something he remembers Theo reading a long time ago. The kind of book that traveled with her, that she would indulge in like comfort food, curling up with old, familiar words. He knows he parted poorly with Nicolette, wishes he could have left her with some sort of contentment. A peace offering. She had been nothing but kind to him and he ran from her as if she were his assailant. 

He returns to his truck, settling his used copy of _The Lottery_ in the passenger seat, and then starts back to the house. For dinner, he warms up a can of soup and eats it right out of the pot, standing at the stove and staring at the wall as he does. When he’s finished, he fills the pot with soapy water and lets it soak, flipping open the book and leaving a note on the inside cover. 

When the pot and spoon are washed, Luke goes through the house and opens all of the windows. The sun is starting to set, and the room are filled with the cacophony of crickets and toads. Cool air quickly fills the space and starts Luke shivering, and he pulls on another sweater. He sets a chair in front of the window and loops his feet through so they’re hanging outside, aching slightly with the cold. 

Some time passes while he sits there. Luke holds the bud of his locket in his palm, flicks it open and shut without looking. He listens to the outside bleeding inside, to the calm gurgle and rattle of the old house. Then he rises.


	4. Chapter 4

>   
>  This ole house is getting shaky  
>  This ole house is getting old  
>  This ole house lets in the rain  
>  This ole house lets in the cold  
>  Oh, his knees are getting chilly  
>  But he feels no fear nor pain  
>  Cause he seeks a new tomorrow  
>  Through a golden window pane  
>  ― Shakin’ Stevens, _This Ole House_

##### Days 821-822

Luke lets the sun fall down. He watches it drop below the tree line, only a thin orange glow over the grass, and waits until that stream goes lower and lower and then leaves the night sky a calm, deep black. Then, he pulls on his boots and leaves the small house, stepping through the threshold and into the hum of cicadas and the low croak of frogs. A good sound. 

Finally, Luke starts down the empty path with purpose. The end result of something greater, something heavy with significance that he feels, though perhaps does not understand. The path is almost unused, though he can tell that not long ago it was worn and beaten, walked both ways twice a day for decades by Mr. and Mrs. Dudley. Now it is nearly as green as the forest floor, though less treacherous. 

Of course, it takes only minutes to reach The House. He stands in the trees and looks out at it. The lights are off, and The House is cold and completely silent. Maybe, he thinks, I made a mistake. But he takes the few steps out of the trees and walks up the driveway. Familiar, home. Somehow this spectral place was always where he needed to return, the place of his childhood that, somehow, his body hungered to visit, and to stay. 

He places a shocked hand over his heart and feels no pain, no pull. Of course, he thinks, of course. 

He is only a few feet from The House, close enough that he can reach out and press his cold fingers to the wall. From here, in the driveway, the front yard at his back and the forest just beyond that, the small house where he has been staying only minutes away, The House could be just that. Just walls and windows and a roof. If he turns his back on it, it would be without fear. There would be no growl, no reach, no sharp claws. From here, standing all alone, glancing in through dusty windows, Luke takes a final fresh breath and feels the beginnings of the night crawl into his lungs, stupid blue and the twinkle of so many stars lighting his chest as a last goodnight. 

So. 

“Nell,” he calls at the empty House. Nothing. Nothing, and then. And then a slow, thin wail pulls across the space above him, traveling over his head from right to left. His teeth slam together and his throat locks. Carefully, he looks. A window has glided open and the hatch wiggles, bouncing against the wind. The wind. “Nell.” Quiet this time. 

Knowing nothing else, he goes to the porch, one, two, three steps, and crosses to the front doors. They are so large. As a child, he had to put all of his weight into opening one of them, small hands pressing hard to the wood and skinny legs struggling forward. But they always opened, always welcomed him in. 

He places one hand on the wood. He’s done this, been in a position so similar only a few years ago. Sicker then, maybe. Exhausted, desperate. He thinks it may be different now. Certainly, he is coming without the regrets he carried the first time, and he is more certain of what will come. He is going to enter without an aggressive purpose, he thinks. He hasn’t come, this time, to hurt or destroy The House. 

The door gives easily. It doesn’t whine like the window, just glides open and allows him to look into the entryway, to see the gran stairs he had plodded on so many times. 

Luke steps into The House. He takes one then two steps into The House and stops, feet firm on the floor.

He can still smell the gasoline, remembers the reckless and fearful purpose of it, of pouring it out, letting it splash on his pantlegs and standing in the doorway, holding the lighter ready, ready. All of this time wanting to live for a gasp of acceptance. To burn The House down. To lay down and burn with this old house. Now he steps in with a different but similar intent. The house will stand, he knows. He knows. There are some things a man can’t destroy, things that cannot be ended by something so small and simple and a man and a spark. No, this house will still stand, firm and tall and shivering deep in the hills, circled by trees, as it always has. 

Gently and with finality, the door glides shut behind him, latching with a careful tick. Luke sighs. He steps closer to the stairs, looks around him and takes in the decrepit state. Maybe they should have kept up with the place, completed it, let it stand as something of a memorial, a shrine to their mother’s hopes and designs. He can imagine what it would have looked like. Statuesque, a bubble of warmth, a capsule of carefully held time, the moment between inhale and exhale. They might have made it show something of the truth, let passersby see that The House was indeed occupied. 

“Please,” his father says, and Luke turns to see him standing in the hall where the front room seeps into the kitchen, the sun room, the garden. He is young. He is the man who moved them into The House, the man who fled with them. Luke’s breath catches in his throat and he steps closer, involuntarily reaching for his dad, mouth gasping open. 

“Dad,” he cries, both arms out, clamoring for the other man to come closer, and Hank reluctantly complies, “I’m so sorry! I need you, I do! Please!” Luke stumbles forward until he is in Hugh’s arms, his father somehow holding him strongly. Hugh shushes him, rocks him so gently, and whispers in his ear. 

“It’s alright, I’ve got you. C’mon, Luke.” And his voice holds so much love, unrestrained, unwavering. Luke is trembling. His dad’s hold is cold but it doesn’t matter. It’s been so long, and there is too much regret for a little cold to bother him. 

“I- I,” he stutters, shakes his head and retries, “I want to be a better son. I want you to know how much I love you, Dad.” His eyes are starting to well up and hastened breath rackets through his nose, hot air shivering through him. 

“I know,” Hugh hums, looking right into Luke’s eyes with a graveness that sends cold bumps down Luke’s sides. “I love you so much I want you to go. You need to leave, Luke.” And he presses his son backwards, moves them both closer to the door. But Luke holds firm, shakes his head. 

“It’s too late,” Luke tells him, holding his father’s arms and squeezing them comfortingly, trying to make his expression certain and warm. Tries to show his understanding. Shock blooms in Hugh’s eyes, caustic anger. 

“No,” Hugh snaps, and Luke thinks he sees the lightest tinge of blue appearing at the other man’s cheeks, tries hard not to notice. In his frustration, Hugh grabs at his son’s collar with his right hand, gathers the fabric and pulls at it. The gesture tightens Luke’s shirt, feels like choking. 

“Dad,” Luke says, gently detaching his father’s tight grip on his collar, “I’m alright. It’s just time for me to come back now.” He tries to pull Hugh into another hug, wants to diffuse the situation and just be held for a little longer, to be embraced before the night gets darker, more hectic. He doesn’t know how long he will get this, wants to enjoy it. He is only afraid of what comes after, accepting and brave, but with an uncomfortable anticipation resting heavily in his gut. 

“I don’t understand.” Hugh says, allowing the return to the hug, confused but wrapping his arms around Luke, patting his back softly and rocking them on their feet, side to side. 

“Hmm,” Luke hums, closing his eyes, feeling a bit like sand collapsing, breaking apart and tumbling down, layers and layers of himself disconnecting and then reforming, one and then thousands, “I don’t really either.” 

Which is the truth, which is finally something he can say, something he can present. Hugh hums and nods into his son’s shoulder, apparently accepting his statement for fact, sensing and believing always in something bigger, more expansive and possibly more organic and real that any of them, than any living thing. 

His dad, eventually, had come to believe his twins’ stories. Only after The House. But he did, he did. And he had believed from so far away, through phone calls and visits, once bright eyes now dulled, almost gray. While Steve and Shirley rolled their eyes and Theo averted hers, while they all turned away from the twins’ truth, their father had listened, had encouraged them and held their hands and nodded, raptly. No denial, no anger. Probably, in the end, why the twins had loved him and had been so quick to forgive, even as time passed and their confusion expanded into something much heavier, their conviction, at times, quieter. The three of them sat in a circle and whispered the truth back and forth, an unkept but sacred promise. 

“Thank you,” Luke whispers, eyes opening when the coldness blisters away and he finds that he is alone beneath the stairs. 

Luke resists the urge to just rush up the stairs, to hurry the night to its completion. Instead, he turns into the hallway his dad had emerged from, treading through the long-abandoned path, unhindered in the pitch black. He reaches his hands out and palms the furniture, hands sliding over everything and his body carefully avoiding hazards. The rooms are familiar, even after all this time. The House, The House, is almost formed from his young memory, becoming under his feet. 

He comes to the kitchen, stands before the window. No moonlight pulls in, but he is still guided to the old dumbwaiter. Once he had been so small that he could easily tuck himself away in there with a flashlight and his heart hammering with adventure. So long ago, he had desired simple adventure, unconcerned, unthoughtful of the risks. 

He goes to it now, the small cubby in the wall. The vessel, the casket. Fun, and then the drop, sudden and leading to a snap stop. It’s orange with rust now, and he can’t imagine that he could send it down, now. What would he send, what would find it? 

“Me,” his mother says, voice velvet, “I always found you. I always looked the hardest.” He closes his eyes and feels something unlock in his chest. 

“Mom,” he whispers at the dumbwaiter, at The House, at the woman he knows stands just behind him. He is so overwhelmed, suddenly, with love. He hears her cross the room, feet padding on the floor with soft taps, as if she is living, has human form and weight. His lip quivers and held tears spill over, tumbling down his cheeks, curving under his chin and then dripping in heavy blobs to the collar of his sweater. 

Her hands, so strong and firm, hold each of his shoulders, let them shake and tremble before she slowly turns him to face her. They stand there for so long. She waits, and even with his eyes shut he can feel her stare, knows that she is watching him. Those eyes, those knowing eyes. He dreams of them still. After all this time, he imagines their intensity and warmth, can feel her spirit’s love from across the country, her keen awareness watching him play. 

“Luke, sweetheart,” she says, a smile in her voice, urging, “look at me.” 

And he does. Luke crumbles and lets his teary eyes tick open, takes in the sight of his mother. She is the world, the whole goddamn world. He knows it so suddenly, that she has been resting over everything this entire time, in the grass, the trees, the wind. His mother in pieces over everything. 

Of course, he thinks, of course. Just like Nellie said, she was settled over his whole life. Always there, never gone. Of course. 

Luke sobs and his mother wipes away his tears with her thumb, kisses him of the cheek, on the forehead, cups his face in her hands. Her eyes are two moons, bright and open on her face. Looking right into his. She smiles patiently and he loves her, love her so much. Doesn’t know how to express how much he missed her when she has always been present, when she never abandoned him. How could he have ever believed she had gone away? 

“I love you,” she calls, flashing her teeth. He nods, just nods and grabs her wrists, keeping her close to him. He can’t remember much of her holding him. So long ago, she had died so long ago, that he remembers splotches of time. He knows she held him, but he couldn’t remember how, wasn’t sure what was real and what was fabricated from his older siblings’ stories. 

“I love you, too,” he huffs, but doesn’t let his eyes shut, tries not to blink. His mother is here, he doesn’t want her to vanish like his dad had. He doesn’t think he can stand losing her again, finding her so abruptly gone. 

“I’ll be so close,” she whispers, “just around the corner, Luke. Waiting. All of us; we’re ready for you to come home. It’s okay now.” 

It’s the truth, he understands. She will be there, just as he can tell his father is still here. Just as they are all here, hovering quietly over bannisters and behind shelves and under tables, just out of sight. 

“Not yet,” he begs, hiccupping. 

“Not yet,” she agrees. 

They stand like that for some time, her honeyed voice humming a familiar lullaby, and old song from his childhood, one just for him, just for her Robin. For when he scraped his knee or had a nightmare. He smiles, lets his eyes drop shut and feels her go, her cold hands vanishing. 

He doesn’t let his eyes open for some time, leans back against the wall and waits for his tears to dry up before releasing a breath and straightening himself up. Open, to the dark room. So dark without his mother’s glow that the effect is similar to having his eyes shut. He feels the long table, reorients himself in the room and move forward. 

He circles around, on the other side of The House, on the left side. The fireplace, a couch. Books and armchairs and cracked lamps. In one of the old chairs, legs crossed and a foot swishing up and down. A woman he does not know. Her red hair is gathered up to her head, braided and tugged into a small clasp. A feather in her hair, a small slinky dress. Heels and a pearl necklace. His stomach ties in knots, aware of the sudden danger. This woman, somehow vile, somehow a gaping maw with rows of snapping teeth. A stranger in his home, the homeowner all along. 

“Hi, darling.” She chimes, a woman clamoring like a bell, her presence surging, rattling. “Long time, no see.” 

“Hi,” he says, uncertain. He takes a step to the side, eyeing the exit, and she is suddenly on her feet, so close to him that he can smell her dusty breath, the faint hint of old perfume. Her doesn’t touch him but he is held in her gaze, half-hooded eyes clasping him and locking him up. 

“Pussycat, pussycat,” she singsongs, lifting one grayed nail and bopping his nose, her face lit into a dark smile, something knowing in her eyes. He tries to pull back and one sharp hand catches the back of his neck, rakes up into his hair and runs through, knotting there and holding firm. He gasps, he quakes. “It’s nothing to get all worked up about,” she admonishes, one side of her mouth quirking down. 

“There’s nothing to do,” he says, finding some strength, pushing through is fear. Ultimately, none of this actually matters. In the end the result is the same, only depending on method and timing. Everything leads to the same end, down the same tunnel. The same fall. 

“Of course, there’s something to do. There’s always something,” she brings her free hand up, rests it on his side and presses her long, pointed nails through the skin. He grunts, pain blooming and dark blood pressing through his shirt, coming down in four long streams that pool at his waistband. He pants, grabs her wrist. It is narrow and he can wrap it up easily in his hand. But she just plucks her nails from his side and brings red hands to his cheek, runs a clean thumb over his lips and pulls him so close to her. 

“I won’t leave,” he says, “I’m not running.” She is strong, pulls him down to meet her so he is hunched, his face inches from her own. 

“True,” she whispers, eyes intent on his lips, her tongue tracing over her bottom lip. He pulls back, turning his head to the side and trying to push her away. She chuckles, heatedly, and lets one lanky arm wrap around the back of him, her other hand sliding from his face and resting right over his heart. She lifts herself closer, ignoring his resistance, and—

“Poppy,” another voice, harsh and firm. Poppy stops with a disappointed sound, pulls slightly back from Luke and meets his eyes, winks and disappears. He turns to see Mrs. Dudley, dark hair falling over her shoulders, her husband at her side, a bundle in her arms. 

“I feel sick,” Luke gurgles, turning and rushing forward, stumbling to his knees in the front room. Under the stairs once more. He sits on the carpet, hands flat on the ground, staring down at the patterned rug. He regains his composure and reluctantly looks back up, finds himself alone. The grand stairs, the spiraling stairs. The room where his mother and sister both died, both climbing up, encouraged, he’s sure, by The House, and then letting themselves go. Unraveling, spilling out with the quickest snap. He’s sure, he’s sure. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He counts. Again, and again, tracing the red pattern on the rug with his finger and letting the numbers calm him, protect him. He is safe. 

“Stop.” Simple, hushed. Like sparks behind his ears, a lily taking root, hungry arms digging into his soft brain and burrowing, curling in. He looks up and rises to his feet so fast it dizzies him, stares up the way, up over the stairs and to the center. 

It is Nell, so perfectly Nell. He sees her face and he knows her. There has never been a living thing that he’s known so well as her, and his ability to recognize her is beyond life and death. 

He sighs, finally, finally. Such relief in being whole again, in the proximity to his other half. 

“I came,” he says, his own voice sounding far away, echoing between his ears. He reaches out to her, voice thick with tears that threaten to spill over. Her form, still so far away from him, seems to shift over itself, edges billowing and something near the center of her stomach pulsing and turning like smoke. Shaped liquid, loose within her shell. All the wisps and catches of Nell spilling in and out of form. His heart stutters at the looseness of it, how she is and isn’t all at once. 

“No!” Nell screams her distress and he could weep at the noise. She is a thing, now, just beyond him but within reach. He knows the way, is again calmed and certain in his mission. She stands above him as a reminder of why he has taken this path, of what has been moving him these last years and pulled him right back home. She is his reluctant porchlight, flashing on and off and calling him in. 

“I’m so sorry I left you.” Luke says, so quiet he isn’t sure she can hear, doesn’t understand what her new body, if it is that, can perceive. “I felt you. All this time, Nellie.” He places his hand over his heart to show her where their connection has been strongest, as if she can see the invisible rope that has been dragging him back to her all this time. 

“It wasn’t me!” She howls. The words cause his stomach to drop. He pauses his ascent, stares up at her and grimaces. He doesn’t ask, but it is Nell and she always knows, and so says, “It was The House.” Softly and carefully, so full of sympathy for her broken brother’s willingness to spill over for these senseless desires, empty pleasures. 

Luke is very still. The House seems to shift slowly under him, leaning forward as if eager for his response. What will he think of this? It must be wondering. Maybe he will let it eat him, will capsize under the weight of this new knowledge. Of course, this wasn’t a connection to his sister, of course. 

Because Luke belongs to The House, a half-swallowed meal choked up. Chewed to pieces and sinking in, dead on the floor in his sibling’s arms and waiting to be digested. Dead. Completely dead in The House and still dragged out. Of course, Luke thinks. Everything that dies here remains, including him. These last few years had been greedily stolen; Luke had escaped and survived, cheaply restored, on borrowed time. This line in his chest was not to his twin’s soul, with which his own had been so entwined in life, but a tether to the walls and floors and dusty windows that had eaten him. The link had been dragged along, like the tense string of a bow, pulled back that night and snagged in the guesthouse, easing his feet along the floor and bringing him back home. And somehow, The House dribbled over this connection, dropping its dead into his life much more solidly that the Bowler Hat Man who had stalked his more addled mind in the past. 

Luke inhales, releasing the tension in his shoulders and smiling as he continues up the steps. It doesn’t really matter. He is here, now. He has come all this way, already prepared to give himself up to it. The things that brought him back are still here; The House still holds his sister and parents, and the ache in his chest is only now beginning to ease. Hill House had slowly drawn him back through manipulation, but the battle was over regardless of whether he came along honestly. 

He grabs the bannister and starts up the stairs, taking a few steps before stopping. Nell’s eyes are wider now and she lifts a hand to halt him, groaning as if pained. There is not better way to tell her that it is fine that to simply show her, to throw his acceptance before her so she can shuffle through it. The House has won; Luke is going to die again, and this time his whole being will remain. 

“Luke!” She screams, her voice sharp like icicles. It seems to push him back, sending him down a step and gripping the bannister for purchase. He collects himself, shivering in the cold. 

“Stop,” he says, “nothing else to do.” And she shakes her head, whole form trembling, warm tears angling down her face. 

He moves up the steps, eyes never leaving her. She is so bright now, glowing and lighting the whole room. A cup of stars. He had always known, and now the night can see, can see how she matches the sky and how she is a gentle light, a peaceful light. Something to see up above and find your way, a true star. _His North Star_ , always. A guide, a luminary. 

He takes the final steps and stands with her at the top, guarding over the whole house. She is turned to face him but doesn’t reach out, only stares with fierce eyes. He has never seen her so disappointed, even after everything. He hates to force such a look, feels vile to bring on such strong despair in her. He loves her more than anything, needs her more than his own life. 

“If I could bring you back,” He says, words quiet and hard, so precise and so honest, “I could live for you. I could live or die for you.” And he will. 

She bites her lip and turns her head down. He reaches for her, wipes away a tear and takes her icy hand in his own. So strange how a dead woman can still cry, how she somehow is still not at rest, how her mind hasn’t found peace. He wants the world to be better for her, to be something much easier for her soft heart to forgive. 

“I can’t stand this,” she breathes, her eyes finally lifting to his, her hand returning his grip. He doesn’t want her to look so dead, but doesn’t flinch away. 

“Don’t watch,” he says, almost frenetically. He squeezes her hand, looks dead in her eyes and shakes his head. “Go to another room, let me just do it.” Her brows furrow and she shakes her head, refusal on the tip of her tongue. “It’s okay, I won’t be alone,” he promises, and she seems to calm, though her face is still hard, her lips still pulled in a thin line. 

“Luke, please.” One last time, she begs him to live. All his life, his siblings begging him to stop what he is doing to himself and just live. He can’t, though. He has never been brave enough to just stand up tall and leave the past behind, to inhale, exhale, and find something beyond survival. 

Counting, seven, six, then five, then four. Soon, just three. The count will stop at three. The ever-shrinking Crains. 

“It’ll be fast,” he promises, “I’ll make it so quick, like a light. Blink and I’ll be with you.” He holds her hands for just a second longer and then releases her, swiping away a final tear and then backing into the hall. 

He isn’t sure, at first, how to do it. He doesn’t want to jump, like his mother and sister. Can’t just let go like his father, slumping in the corner just out of sight. 

And then, a whispered answer, he hears running water. Oh, he thinks, I should have guessed. He smiles one last time at Nell, who doesn’t flicker away, who stays at the stair with her hands over her eyes, counting silently into the air, counting buttons, counting stars. 

He follows the sound of water down the hall, walking past bedrooms without peaking in, not needing the reminder. He finds the stop where Hugh had sat crumpled and lingers for a moment, letting the red door glide gently open, opening its arms to him, welcoming him in. Beyond the door is a small bathroom. He steps in, takes it all in. Stone floors, beige and then yellow walls, honey colored and framing the porcelain sink, the long, curved tub, supported by four bronze clawed legs. Warm water is slowly filling it up, steam rising slowly. The door falls shut behind him with a silent click and he nervously rubs his hands together. He watches the water pour down until it reaches just two inches from the brim, and then the spout cuts off, lever twisting itself up. 

Luke removes his shoes and socks, uncertainly rolls up his sleeves and takes the final steps to the tub. Three steps, from the door to the tub. He tests the temperature with his hand and finds it pleasantly warm. He stands, hunched over the tub, one hand in and the rest of him hesitating. 

“You’re doing so well,” Olivia hums, running a hand through his hair. She stands beside him, face unburdened, calm. She understands, he thinks, better than anyone. This need, this painful understanding that it is better to unwrap himself from his body, to pour out and end, to wake up something new. 

“Mom, I’m scared,” he confesses. His legs feel rubbery, like they will collapse under him, like they won’t carry him the final step. 

“I’ll carry you,” she promises, “just as soon as you’re ready.” And one of her hands loops around him and under the arm farther from her, chilled skin a shock to his now almost fevered body. 

He waits, waits for the fear to ebb, to fade away. He stares down into the water and focuses on his mother’s hold, on her acceptance that he tries to meet, on the knowledge that his sister waits in the next room, that his dad is close by. That he is home. 

Once upon a time, he thinks, the world was just play, and all we had, the five of us, all we had was play…. 

“In delay there lies no plenty.” 

He takes a deep breath, lets it go and turns to his mom. Nods. She smiles so softly and lifts him like he is nothing, helps him forward and into the bath. He eases down, warm water gushing into his clothes, surrounding him and pressing into his skin pleasantly. He sighs and Olivia chuckles. 

“I don’t want you to see, either,” he says, voice just a rasp. “It’ll be better alone.” She hesitates, but then seems to accept his request. She leans forward and kisses his forehead one last time, eyes taking in his face before she is gone. 

He shudders, faces straight ahead at the faucet. Just to his left, in the corner of his eye, he can see the silver gleam of a razor. He reaches for it with a trembling hand and holds it before his eyes. Old-fashioned, one long blade pulling out of the stem in a straight line. He tests it on a thumb and a bead of blood bunches up and then spills over the pad, dripping once, twice into the bathwater. 

Bracing himself, Luke brings the razor up and presses it to his throat. He holds it there, his mind humming restlessly, stunned at pain about to come, and then runs it along in a horizontal line. The blood spurts out immediately in a strange rush, splatting out onto the wall. Luke jolts a hand up. His palm presses over the wound but doesn’t staunch the blood, just keeps it from spraying out so disturbingly. He doesn’t want to see. The slash burns dully, pain dimmed behind the shocked ringing in his ears. 

There are low noises that he recognizes as his own. Scared little moans and hitched breaths. His free hand grabs the side of the tub, sliding along in search of something grounding. The water around him has clouded over in a dark orange and he is almost hypnotized by the sight of it. 

Blood spills down his front, tickling his neck and staining his shirt. He writhes a little, then tries to slide himself further down into the tub. Hot water gathers around him and he closes his eyes. Trying to be soothed. He starts to fog up. The noises stop and his hand spills back into the tub. 

A click. Dull squeak, thump, thump, thump. 

Luke is lifted up, dragged over the edge of the tub and flopped dully onto the floor. He is yanked up gracelessly, something snaking around his throat and squeezing. He grips at it weakly, can’t see _can’t see_ who it is. 

In the distance, there is a roar and crashing. Luke wants to open his eyes to understand the chaos, but feels himself floating away. _Come in, come in, come in_. 

 

~*~

 

Luke doesn’t answer the phone when Steve calls. Doesn’t answer the second or third calls either. When Shirley and Theo pull up, the family car spraying gravel as it whips into the driveway, they find the front door open. Tensely, they step inside. The house is cold, and they walk through, calling for their brother and taking in the open windows. There is a book on the kitchen counter, along with a small stack of envelopes. There’s a chair facing a living room window. A pile of clothes left on the bathroom floor, and a towel in the bedroom. The comforter is wrinkled, but the bed is made. They walk through opening doors and peeking in, calling out for Luke. He is not there. 

They leave the Dudley House as they found it, thrown open and exposed, letting the forest slip in. Outside, Theo faces the road and presses the heels of her hands into her temples, presses hard. Shirley is calling someone a few feet away, maybe the police, maybe Steve, maybe she’s actually just talking to Theo. Theo slowly lets out a breath and starts towards the trees. 

She’s never walked this path, never bothered exploring the woods when they lived out here. But she knew which direction Mr. and Mrs. Dudley approached from in the mornings, and where they went before the sun dropped every night. 

Shirley follows wordlessly, hanging up the phone. 

The House is already roped off when they breach the woods. There are two cop cars and an ambulance, and a collection of uniformed people standing by the two front doors, which are stuck open. No one is rushing, or panicking. The two cops at the door are talking conversationally. Someone is sitting on the edge of the ambulance, a bright orange blanket around their shoulders. It isn’t their brother. 

Neither woman moves closer. Not for a long time. They don’t speak to one another, or scream, or take off running towards The House, demanding to know where Luke is and what happened. They already know. 

“No,” Theo says, simple as that. Shirley grabs her sister’s elbow, her grip tight enough to bruise, and then walks stiffly towards the ambulance. Theo lets herself be pulled along, eyes only for the front doors, waiting. Waiting for them to wheel him out. She needs to see him, to know for sure. 

They get close enough to see the man’s face, and Shirley groans. The noise is enough to steal Theo’s attention. She doesn’t recognize the man, but Shirley takes another step forward so quickly and with so much intent that Theo thinks, for a moment, that she is going to strike him. Instead, she grips the front of his blanket and tugs it, shaking him weakly. His pale eyes are wide and wet, and he stares up at Shirley open-mouthed. 

“Mr. Delacroix,” she croaks, still latched on to him, “what’s happening?” 

He shakes his head, then seems to realize that Theo is there for the first time. He takes her in, leaning back further into the ambulance, then reaches out a hand. There is blood, darkening the cracks and clouding out along the palm and up the fingers. She blinks, noticing for the first time that the fronts of his pantlegs are wet, like he went for a swim fully clothed. Or pulled something saturated onto his lap. Mr. Delacroix seems to remember this and quickly retracts his hand. 

“Who is this?” Theo whispers, but Shirley either doesn’t hear or ignores her. 

“Tell me,” Shirley hisses. Her knuckles are white, one hand on the orange blanket and the other still holding Theo in place. Theo doesn’t want to hear it from him, but she doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t pull away and run when he slowly starts to speak. 

His voice is low and smooth, and doesn’t quiver the way Theo thinks it should. He says, “I found him upstairs. I tried to stop the- I got him out of the water and held him. Called for help.” He indicates the ambulance, then hides his ruddy hands deeper in the blanket. “I told them someone else was here, so they haven’t left yet. They don’t understand.” 

“Why are you here?” Theo snaps, louder this time. Delacroix looks at her again, his expression sympathetic, and it takes all of her power not to grab him around the throat and thrash the answer out of him. 

“I just knew,” he says, looking at her pointedly. Her stomach clenches and she yanks her arm out of Shirley’s grip, takes a few steps closer to The House then stops. Behind her, she hears Shirley speak again in a quiet voice. 

“Is he still—?” She cuts herself off, and there’s the sound of shifting. Shirley makes a noise and Theo turns to see the man reaching out with his bloody hand and grabbing Shirley’s shoulder, a sad smile pulling across his face. Theo quickly turns away again, thinking _don’t say it!_

Theo feels her stomach bottom out and her knees wobble, sending her into the grass. One of the police officers at the door glances over and starts approaching, frowning at the newcomers. She doesn’t hear what the officer says, can’t stop herself from sobbing like a fool in the grass. 

There’s the sound of a metallic click, and Theo automatically looks up to see the gurney’s slow descent from the front entrance, down the steps. There is a long, limp figure strapped into it. _That’s my brother_ , she wants to scream, but all that comes out is a pained groan, and she sinks further into herself. 

Like a bullet, Shirley takes off across the yard. Theo isn’t fast enough to grab her, watches in shock while her sister sprints full-tilt to the paramedics and grabs the body. Behind her, Theo hears Delacroix slide down from the ambulance. A few moments later Theo is being pulled up and walked up to the gurney. She digs her heels into the dirt and the man gently takes her hand and says, “It’s alright. Look, it’s alright.” 

Theo allows herself to be pushed up to the body, close enough to hear the calm but stern voices of the still-moving paramedics, to see that Shirley is not desperately gathering her dead brother up in her arms, but holding his hand, looking down and meeting his eyes.


	5. Epilogue

Luke has never really known hope, but he understands recovery. 

The hospital stay is longer this time, because he apparently did a real number on himself. He’s lucky, they say, and keep saying. It isn’t true. His siblings are never going to forgive him. He understands. At first, they gather around his bed, taking turns holding his hands, damning him and loving him all at once. He wishes he could tell them that he isn’t alive at all, that he went to The House for a reason, that there is something fundamentally wrong here that can’t be fixed with gauze. 

Later, they make him go to therapy. Steve pays for it and Theo drives him to his sessions. She hand-selected the ‘second best’ therapist at the office and says, pointedly, that she would know if he ever skipped out. He doesn’t really know if it is helping. It’s hard to get help when you have to dodge around the truth. Can’t say he is literally haunted; can’t say he sees dead people. 

Though, admittedly, he hasn’t seen them for weeks. 

He doesn’t move back in with his sister. There’s a small row of apartments on the other side of town and he signs the lease a few months after he is released from the hospital. 

Kevin packs up the Dudley House and drives everything down. Luke finds the letters, unopened, at the top of a box full of books, along with _The Lottery_. He shreds the letters, but keeps the book. 

Shirley shows up one day with a dog. He asks about it and she shrugs, says she figured something needed to change. His name is Thumper. They go to a local watering hole, eat sandwiches and talk over the roar of drunks watching football, laugh at each other. They share old stories that he must know, that she must have heard a thousand times, but enjoy anyway. That night when Shirley goes, she leaves Thumper behind. 

Eventually, he walks the dog to Hutchinson’s, and ties it to the bike rack so he can step in. He finds Nicolette behind the desk, and she traces her fingers over the threaded line across his throat, takes the book with teary eyes and presses a kiss to his cheek. Sometime later- much, much, later- she kissed his lips and makes sure he breaks out of his routine, holds his hand and listens to the whole story and believes every word of it. 

The pain in his heart is a phantom, now. Low and dull. It never quite leaves, and he suspects that he is still being beaconed. Called home. And one day, he will go back.


End file.
